


The Avengers' Calendar

by scifigrl47



Series: Phil Coulson's Case Files of the Toasterverse [14]
Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Fluff, Gen, Holidays, Humor, M/M, Team Building, mostly an excuse for me to write holiday fic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-11-28
Updated: 2015-08-23
Packaged: 2018-01-02 21:38:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 25,166
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1061937
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scifigrl47/pseuds/scifigrl47
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A years worth of events, moments, celebrations, and public appearances in the lives of the Avengers.</p><p>Each chapter a new month, and a new excuse for writing holiday fic.  New characters and new relationships will likely be added as I go.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. November- Thanksgiving

**Author's Note:**

> Each chapter will be a new month, starting with November, and running through October. This is partially a reason to combine some short pieces from Tumblr, and partially an excuse to write new ones. 8)

“Explain this again,” Thor said, staring at the boxes with a pursed mouth.

“Thanksgiving,” Coulson told him. “It's a holiday where we try to reflect on the things we have to be thankful for, including our family and friends.”

“And you do this by consuming much food?” Thor asked.

“Also, football. It's the American way!” Clint said, thrusting a hand in the air. 

“That's part of it, yes,” Bruce said, his lips twitching. “But another big part of it is offering hospitality to others, to give thanks for what you have by attempting to share with those who might not be so fortunate.”

“Thus, the collection for the food banks,” Steve said, smiling. The muscles of his back and arms were in stark relief beneath his shirt, but he wasn't breathing hard. He set the box down with a faint sigh. “Not enough, though, is it?”

“Every bit helps,” Coulson told him.

“Not if you're the one who's hungry.” There was a faint pinch between his eyebrows as he studied what they'd gathered so far.

Tony stopped in the act of drinking his coffee. “We'll cover it, Cap, don't worry about it. The Foundation's on it, but the food banks are hard hit this year.” Not that he'd been aware of it, he left the Maria Stark Foundation's board of directors alone. They did a good job at parceling out available funds, but demand had outstripped what was available.

Then again, it almost always did.

“What do you do for this day?” Thor asked Bruce.

“It's an American holiday,” Bruce explained. “Other countries have their own, or similar holidays, but this one is only in the United States. And, well, I haven't been.”

Thor nodded, and looked at Clint, who shrugged.

“Family holidays are tough when you don't have a family,” he said with a grin.

“SHIELD has its celebration on a day before, or after,” Natasha said. She had Coulson's file folders open in front of her, her eyes narrowed as she scanned the documents. “Too much risk to assume that we won't see an attack the day of, but there is a celebration. For foreign agents, or those without immediate family, most gather off duty to have a meal, or at least watch tv.”

“SHIELD's party is on a random day?” Tony asked, curious despite himself. “How does that work, exactly?”

“Usual duty roster,” Coulson said, leaning over the invoices. “With twenty-four hour notice of the event. Agents, active duty personnel, and direct family are all welcome, so if you're not on shift, you can stop by whenever. The party runs all day, and well into the night.”

“So it's a bit of a secret, but not really,” Clint said, grinning. “Organization full of spies; people are going to find out.”

“It's a yearly battle,”Coulson agreed. “Fury takes entirely too much pleasure out of organizing it.”

“He missed his calling,” Natasha agreed. “He would've made a terrifying wedding planner.”

“Pity the poor ice sculptor who screwed up that order,” Clint agreed. “And now I'm thinking of Fury stomping around with fabric swatches and flower arrangements, and that will haunt my nightmares for the rest of my life. Thank you for that.”

“I live to serve,” Natasha said. She glanced up at Steve. “We can make this up, Cap. We just have to work at it.”

Steve nodded, his jaw tight. But he took a seat next to Tony and accepted a cup of coffee with a sigh. “I know,” he told her. “But we don't have much time.”

“We have enough,” Tony told him. 

“How do you celebrate this giving of thanks?” Thor asked him.

“By eating a pie in the workshop,” Tony said. The team looked at him, and he shrugged. “I like pie. Let's go. We have boxes to load.”

*

Monday, they hit the press junket.

“If one more morning talk show host asks me about my plans for the holidays, I will not be held responsible for my actions,” Tony grumbled. He eyed the minibar in the limo, wondering if it was late enough to start drinking yet. Because a Bloody Mary was the only thing he could imagine getting him through the next few 'appearances.'

“Please don't do that,” Coulson said. “I have plane tickets for tomorrow, and if you light a talk show set on fire, I'm going to have to cancel them.”

Steve looked up from their schedule. “Going home for the holiday?”

“I promised my parents I would prior to well, all of this,” Coulson said, his lips twitching. “So I'd appreciate if it you all could keep out of trouble.”

“We're never trouble,” Clint said, and no one paid any attention when Coulson smacked him on the back of the head. 

“Pepper's gone to see her mother, too,” Tony pointed out. “And I'm more afraid of interrupting her vacation than yours.” 

“You didn't go?” Bruce asked.

“I met her parents once. We don't need to repeat that mistake,” Tony said, rubbing his forehead. “The holidays are just-” He gritted his teeth. “Are they over yet?”

“Just starting,” Bruce told him, and there was sympathy in his eyes, in the faint smile on his lips. He took his glasses off and polished them on the hem of his untucked shirt. Steve offered him a pristine white handkerchief, and he took it with a murmur of thanks. “We have a month of this.”

“I am not doing public appearances for the next month,” Tony warned them. “No. Not happening. I have work to do.”

“It's for a good cause,” Steve said, frowning as he stared down at the schedule on his tablet. “And it's working. We're filling food pantries.”

“A good cause indeed,” Thor said, yawning behind a giant palm. 

“But after this, we have Toys for Tots and the Secret Santa programs for the local shelters and a couple of outreach programs,” Coulson said. “We're going to have to push if we want to meet goals.”

“Why are we doing this?” Tony asked.

“Because we can,” Bruce said. “And we have a responsibility to do it.”

“I have spent my entire life,” Tony said, kicking off his shoes and stretching his legs out in front of him, “avoiding responsibility. How did this happen? How did I become an actual paragon of virtue?”

“That is never, ever going to happen, do not be concerned,” Natasha told him. 

Tony was going to object, but before he could, Clint interrupted his train of thought with a very enthusiastic snore. Tony glanced in his direction. “How does he sleep like that?” he asked, fascinated despite himself. Clint was half on and half off the bench seat, one leg bent under him, the other braced against the far wall, his head back, his arm over his eyes, and his mouth wide open.

“Quite soundly,” Coulson said, without even looking up.

“Seriously, does he not have bones?” Tony asked, making Steve choke on a laugh. Tony grinned at him, and Steve tried to look serious. He wasn't entirely successful.

“Let him sleep,” Coulson said, his lips twitching. “We have twenty minutes before we're due at NBC.”

“I hate my life,” Tony said, and fuck it, he reached for the mini-bar. He'd regret it, he was sure, but he'd regret it more if he didn't.

*

Tuesday, SHIELD threw a party. 

For a party where nearly everyone over the age of twenty-one was armed and potentially lethal, it was surprisingly fun. Of course, it helped that there were quite a number of guests under the age of ten.

Nick Fury was watching over the room, a smirk on his face. “Having a good time, Stark?”

“Considering you're serving sparkling cider instead of actual booze?” Tony asked. “Yeah. I kind of am.” He nodded his chin towards where Thor and Steve, both in full uniform, were playing court to a pack of kids. “Of course, the entertainment is worth the price of admission.”

“Considering that the price of admission is a donation to one of Cap's pet charities? And those donations are voluntary? Yeah, I can see that.” Fury sipped his fizzy apple juice, his one dark eye glinting. “I mean, for everyone other than you.”

“Yeah, I did see that I was matching all donations made,” Tony said. “Which is weird, in that I don't remember agreeing to that.”

“That is strange, isn't it?” Fury mused. “That seems like the sorta thing you'd remember. I mean, I would think.” Fury's mouth pursed tight. “But then again, you are infamous for being real bad with money.”

“I'm not bad with money. I'm occasionally irresponsible with money, but that's an entirely different thing,” Tony told him. “I know where it goes. It's wasted.”

“Well, good for you, it's not here.” Fury slapped him on the back. “Here, your irresponsiblity with your millions will do nothing but good things for some needy kids.”

“I'm a swell guy,” Tony agreed. Across the room, Thor was hugging a little girl who was wearing a really impressive helmet and breastplate combo. “Seriously, what is going on here?” he asked.

“Kids love you guys,” Fury said. “If a couple of siblings, neices and nephews, grandchildren, cousins, that sort of thing, have slipped in, I don't see a problem with that. Do you see a problem with that?”

“You're gonna make me get the suit, aren't you?” Tony asked, but he was smiling.

“Nah, you don't- I mean, unless you want to. You want to?” Fury asked him, innocence personified. “Bet you want to.”

“I don't,” Tony told him.

“That's a shame,” Fury said. “Really. A shame.”

“I mean, I could,” Tony said. “You think I should?”

“For fuck's sake, I can feel my brain dying here,” Clint said from his other side. “If this conversation goes on much longer, I'M gonna put on the damn suit.”

“There are safeguards to prevent exactly that,” Tony told him.

“Excuse me, Agent Barton,” Fury said. “Who invited you to this conversation?”

“I was here before you, sir, who invited you?”

“Please tell me you have a flask,” Natasha said, walking up.

“No,” Clint told her.

“It's a family party,” Fury said.

“Coulson told Pepper about this, and then there was a conference call, I really don't want to get into it, but I'm drinking-” Tony frowned at his glass. “Sparkling fairy juice or something.”

“Flask,” Natasha said, her eyes glinting in a dangerous manner. “Now.” All three men pulled one out, and she smiled. “Thank you.” She took Clint's and tucked it in a pocket, and took Tony's for a quick swig.

“I'm not getting that back, am I?” Clint said.

“Coulson called in a favor. No. You are not,” she said, and he shrugged, not looking overly upset. “Why're the three of you hiding in a corner?”

“I'm keeping watch over my kingdom,” Fury said. “Occupational hazard, I like dark corners.”

“I'm considering finding a spot for a nap,” Clint said. “Meal was good.”

“It was, wasn't it?” Fury mused, sounding proud. “Buffet line is the only way to put together one of these things, too much trouble otherwise. But yeah, we outdid ourselves this year.”

“I'm enjoying my sippy cup,” Tony said, “and mourning the loss of my flask.”

“Go get the suit, Stark,” Natasha told him.

“I really don't think-” Tony glanced up, and caught a glimpse of Steve's exhausted face. Heaving a mental sigh, he pushed himself away from the wall. “I'll get the suit.”

*

Wednesday, Tony tried to refuse to leave the Tower. It didn't go his way.

“There's an Iron Man balloon,” he pointed out. “I know. I designed it. It's fantastic. I don't need to go out today and practice a parade I'm not going to be in. And I certainly do not want to get up at three am on Thanksgiving morning and ride on a float.”

“You promised you would,” Steve told him. “You can't back out now.”

“When? When, exactly, did I agree to this, I didn't agree to this, that is the stupidest thing I've ever heard, I would never-” Tony blinked as Steve held up a tablet, right in front of his face. His signature was stark and obvious on the SHIELD itinerary.

“You signed off on the schedule,” Steve said, and it was obvious that at this point, Tony was trying his patience. But he kept his voice level and calm. “Everyone did. It's too late to change it now, Tony.”

Tony snatched the tablet out of his hand. “I didn't- I wouldn't have-” His teeth clicked together. “Pepper.”

“You signed it, Tony,” Steve said, his voice strained. “Parade. Press. Then we put in a last appearance with the food pantries, the faith based outreach programs and the-”

“I'm done,” Tony said, tossing the tablet aside on the workbench. “Done. We're out. It's done, we got what we needed to do done. Done, doing it done, that kind of done.” He was aware, on some level, that he sounded strained, sounded very nearly hysterical, but he didn't care any more.

Parties. Fund raisers. Appearances. Press. Company requirements. SHIELD requirements.

Tony Stark was tired, and he hated the holidays, and he had no desire to do anything other than hiding in his workshop with his work, and his bots. He could have a pie delivered on Thursday afternoon, hell, he could have an entire meal delivered.

He didn't need to do any of this.

Stalking across the workshop, he snapped out, “Jarvis, bring up the schematic of the Langstrom project, I need to look at the power grid.”

“Have you ever gone to bed hungry? Cold?” Steve's voice was soft and careful. There was no accusation in it, only an aching sadness.

Tony bent his head over his work. “Yes,” he said, his voice short, shutting down the discussion before it could start. “I have. And it fucking sucks.”

“Yes. It does.” Steve didn't move. “I know you're tired. I know this is not what you intended to do when you decided to let us-”

“This is not about the team,” Tony said, cutting him off ruthlessly. Because he was not going to go down that route, he was not going to have that discussion. There was no way it would end up anywhere that he wanted to be. “Don't make it about the team.”

“It is about the team,” Steve said. “I committed us.”

“Yeah, and why? I get it, I do, but you know what? Just- I can just make up the missing funds, Steve.”

Steve was silent, and Tony glanced at him. “You're worth more than that,” Steve said. “You. Tony Stark. Iron Man. You're worth more than your money. I get what you're saying, I do. But that's a quick fix that won't last. You can't always handle it. But if you stand up, with the rest of us, if you allow yourself to be a symbol of the right thing to do, Tony? That can last longer.”

Tony didn't like to think about the shiver of unease that rolled through him. “Steve, it's not that easy.”

Steve smiled. A little. “Yes. It is. We stand up, all of us, united, to say, this is a way you can be a hero, too. This is something you can do. We can say that to every single person who sees us. Tomorrow. On Thanksgiving morning, we can remind people that there's still work to do. That there are still people who will meet this day, this particular day, with an empty belly and a cold house.”

Tony went back to his schematic. “You can't fight every battle, Rogers.”

“No. But I like to win the ones I choose to fight,” Steve said. He reached out. Picked up the tablet. “We really need you, Tony.”

Tony closed his eyes, just for an instant. “Yeah, I signed off on it, didn't I? I'll, I don't know, just- Jarvis, I expect a row of espresso cups laid out between my bed and the front door. I don't care how it happens, just make it happen.”

“I shall do my utmost, sir,” Jarvis agreed, and he sounded amused. 

Tony glared at the ceiling. “Insubordinate subroutines just keep sneaking in,” he grumbled. He glared at Steve. “What's the plan for the actual Thanksgiving meal? Photo op? Soup kitchen? Politician's table?”

Steve smiled at him. “It's Thursday. And I think that it's Clint's turn to cook.”

*

Thursday nights were for the team. For friends and movies. If pressed, Tony would admit, he was always kind of thankful for Thursdays. Also, really, for Clint's ability to cook.

“Open that oven one more time, and I will see to it that you suffer,” Clint said, swinging a wooden spoon in Thor's general direction.

“The great bird might be done,” Thor pointed out.

“Thermometer,” Clint said, pointing at the probe thermometer's readout. “We'll know when it's done. The little box will beep at us.” He threw his hands in the air. “It's a fucking MIRACLE!”

“Don't taunt the man who could punch you into the next time zone,” Natasha said, a faint smile on her face. She was carefully snapping the ends off of fresh green beans. “It'll be at least another hour, Thor.”

He made sad eyes at the oven. “It smells excellent,” he told Clint.

“It'll taste even better, once it's done.” Clint grinned at him as he wiped his hands on the front of his apron. “Aren't you supposed to be mulling cider?”

Thor sighed. “Tis a weak drink,” he said. “Tasty, but weak. There is still time to fetch a barrel of mead-”

“No,” Steve said. “Absolutely not, Thor, I do not want to see Clint or Tony on mead.”

“I do,” Clint said. “I want to see Clint on mead.”

“I can hold my mead,” Tony said, and Steve gave him a look. “What? I'm sure I could hold my mead.”

“Potatoes, Tony,” Steve said.

“I bet I could alter Dummy to do this,” Tony mused, as he went back to work with the peeler. “Why am I doing this? Why do I get the grunt jobs? This is insulting.”

“You screwed up salad preparation,” Clint said to him, checking the rising bread dough. “I'm not sure how. But I've never seen a salad so fucked up. I thought it was going to catch fire. So you get to peel.”

“I paid for this, doesn't that count?” Tony asked. “That should count.”

“Shut up and peel, Tony,” Bruce said from the other side of the counter. He had a huge pile of sweet potatoes in front of him, already stripped of their skins and chopped into neat cubes. 

“Peeling is boring.” Tony considered his peeler. “You know, I bet I can-”

“If you don't work, you don't eat,” Steve told him with a faint smile, and Tony shut his mouth.

“Fine,” he groused. “But I demand pie.”

“The very first slice is yours,” Steve agreed. He opened the oven door with one hand and with his other, started sliding pumpkin pies onto the racks. “Timer.”

“Got it,” Natasha said, tapping the information into the tablet. “Doc?”

“Working on it,” Bruce said, dumping his sweet potatoes into a casserole dish. “Fifteen minutes.”

“We're right on schedule,” Clint told her. “This isn't a military operation.” Natasha and Steve stared at him, and he sighed. “No. The two of you are not allowed to team up, the nation won't survive.”

“America was built on teamwork and free enterprise,” Steve told him.

“I like being on the winning side,” Natasha added. “It's far more enjoyable.”

“Let's just get drunk and ignore how this will end poorly for us,” Tony told Clint, who laughed. 

“We have a dinner to make,” Clint pointed out. “Peel.”

“I think I left something on in the workshop,” Tony started. “So I just need to-”

“Peel, Tony,” everyone said at once, and Tony gave up.

*

There was a very nice dining room in Avengers Tower. It didn't get used much. But for a holiday, for this meal, it seemed like the thing to do. And with Clint slinging pots and Natasha watching the clock, and Thor and Steve doing the heavy lifting and Bruce running plates, everything got on the table, hot and ready to eat. Tony contributed to the team goal mostly by staying out of the way and not attempting to help.

But everything got to the table, with Tony's best china and silverware, the stuff Pepper picked out. There were candles and Jarvis had a nice classical concerto to play. They sat there, with filled plates, and looked at each other.

Steve broke the silence first. “Feels weird,” he said, a faint smile on his face. “It's Thursday, after all.”

Natasha rolled the stem of her wine glass between her fingers. “There's really no reason we can't,” she pointed out.

“There are trays,” Tony said. “I like to have options. Not like we haven't eaten in there before.”

“Let's put it to a vote,” Clint said,m grinning. “Show of hands, kids, who wants to move our asses to the living room, pull up a tray, and watch Monty Python and the Holy Grail?”

Tony raised his hand. “Raiders of the Lost Ark.”

Natasha grinned. “Casablanca.” Idly, she held a hand in mid-air.

Thor was already gathering his plate. “Blues Brothers!” he chortled.

“I'd choose 'The Shop Around the Corner,'” Steve said, his hand in the air.

Everyone looked at Bruce, and he smiled, just a little. “Lord of the Rings: Fellowship of the Ring,” he said, and just like that, there was a consensus. 

“And the motion carries,” Tony said. “Grab your plates, grab your drinks, let's go.”

It took no time, and too much time, and it felt familiar and right, and that was odd. That it felt right. That anything involving these people and this place felt right, but it did. As they jockeyed for spots and laid out trays, passed baskets of fresh rolls and poured wine, Tony tried to remember what he'd done before this, on Thanksgiving. 

There was Pepper, sometimes, and Rhodey, when he could get a rare moment free from his duties. But Rhodey had a family, and so did Pepper. And they'd both offered, often enough, to take Tony back with them, but he'd never done it. Even as a desperate, lonely teenager, newly orphaned and alone except for a brief phone call from Obie, he'd turned Rhodey down.

Because it wasn't his family. And the kindness of strangers didn't last long. He never knew what to do when it passed, when he proved too annoying, or too loud, or too much of an ass to keep around. It wasn't his family. Best not to get attached to something that wasn't going to last.

So he'd passed a lot of holidays, unremarked and unobserved, in the workshop. Because the bots at least could be depended upon. They were always there. They always would be. People didn't stick around.

And as he settled back on the couch, a tumbler of scotch in his hand and the finest meal he'd ever had a hand in preparing in front of him, he wondered if this was a mistake. If he was going to regret this some day, when it ended, when they left, when he was left to look back on this day, and feel a grief with which he was far too familiar.

“Tony?”

He jerked out of his thoughts, and Steve was smiling at him. “Here,” he said, holding out a plate. “The first slice.”

Tony stared down at the pie, golden brown and fragrant with spice, and the ache was a real thing, beneath the shattered remnants of his breastbone. He reached out. “Thanks, Cap.”

Steve took a seat next to him, settling down with a grin. But when he looked at Tony, his eyes were dark. “Thank you,” he said, and there was gravity to those words.

Tony arched his eyebrows. “For?”

Steve shrugged. “For this.” He waved a hand at the room. 

Tony considered the room. “This is probably more you than me,” he said, with a faint smile. “I'm not so good with people.”

“Coulda fooled me.” Steve glanced at the pie in Tony's hands. “You're going to eat that first, aren't you?”

He only had to think about that for a second. “Yes. Yes, I am.” He reached for his fork. “Thanks, Cap.” 

“Are we watching this movie, or what?” Clint asked. He was doing his best to steal a green bean from Natasha's plate, despite the fact that he had plenty of his own. She knocked his fork away without even looking in his direction.

“Shut up,” Tony told him, around a mouthful of pie. It was good, spicy and sweet and perfect. Licking whipped cream from his thumb, he picked up his glass. “Happy Thanksgiving,” he said.

“To friends and family,” Thor said, shoving his mug in the air. Tony decided to be benevolent and ignore the stains on his carpet. “Those here, and those absent from our company!”

“To SHIELD,” Clint said, holding up his glass. “The agents still with us, and those we've lost.”

“To New York,” Steve said, studying the light through his glass. There was a faint smile on his face, but no sadness in his eyes.

"To fighting the good fight," Bruce said, his eyes closed. "Whenever we can. However we can."

“To the Avengers,” Natasha said. She paused, and then said, “And to teammates.”

“Hear, hear.” Tony leaned forward and clicked his glass against hers. To general laughter, and the clinking of glassware, he sat back. “Jarvis, drop the lights, cue the movie, and let's do this.”

“Happy Thanksgiving,” Steve said.

Tony smiled. “Happy Thanksgiving,” he said. He took a bite of pie, and maybe, just maybe, this was worth the risk.


	2. December: Christmas

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which I write a Christmas story, and it's really not that jolly. But as with all of my pieces, it will have a happy ending, or at least a hopeful one.
> 
> This is a little dark, and a little sad. For many people, this time of year is difficult, because there are so many memories associated with the Christmas season, both good and bad. As Kermit said in 'Muppet Christmas Carol,' "Life is made up of meetings and partings. That is the way of it." Many people remember the partings, and that can imbue a happy time of the year with a certain melancholy.
> 
> Note: I do not know the religious beliefs of anyone in the MCU. It might have been covered in the background data, but the beliefs of any of these characters have not been explicitly covered by the movies themselves, and are thus open to interpretation. This is my interpretation, and I make no claim to it being canon in the MCU. I do not wish to get into a religious argument with anyone, and I reserve the right to keep religious arguments from springing up in my comment section. No offense is intended, and no canon is infringed upon, so please forgive me my trespasses.
> 
> Trigger warnings for discussions of grief and loss, religious belief and veiled mentions of past abuse and death.

They kept the doors unlocked on the coldest nights. Steve discovered that early in the winter.

Late one night, walking alone, he'd had seen someone go up the stairs to the old Catholic church, and pass through the doors, long after they should've been locked. Steve had followed. He wasn't sure why. But he'd mounted the stairs, pushed open the massive wooden door and slipped inside, out of the cold bite of the New York winter winds.

It was like stepping back in time, and he supposed that's why he kept coming back.

Late into the night, the organist would practice, the music rolling over the mostly empty pews, while a few of the deacons would move silently up and down the aisles, cleaning and checking things over. Stacks of hymnals and bibles carried in steady hands, feet moving soundlessly on the stone of the floor, they went about their work, and allowing the doors to stay open. Here and there in various pews, a few homeless and lost souls sat, protected from the winter night, and grateful for it.

Steve had lit a candle that first night. Tucked a bill into the battered wooden box and lit one of the pillars that filled the racks. He didn't bow his head, or say a prayer, but he lit a candle, and studied the flicker of he flame for a long time. Because he was pretty sure Bucky would've liked that, to have been remembered here, so close to home. 

He came a few times after that, sitting alone in the empty expanse of the wooden pew, staring sightlessly at the alter, letting the music wash over him. Now, with the chancel decorated for Christmas, he had come, once or twice, during the day, to hear the Latin mass being said. There weren't many of the old services anymore, but the elderly priest still went through the litany once a week, his voice rising and falling in an almost forgotten melody of the ancient language. Steve shared the pews with a handful of little old ladies, and he wondered if they were as comforted by the unchanging sweep of the mass as he was.

But mostly, he came late at night. He didn't need much sleep. He did need the distraction however, as the city filled with colored lights and bright red poinsettias and perfect trees that came from boxes and had the sharp, slick smell of plastic clinging to their too bright needles. 

Steve kind of missed imperfections. He missed a lot of things. Especially now.

He'd known that his absences from the tower had been noted, but no one had said anything to him about it. He'd thought they were going to let it go, he'd hoped that they were going to let it go, until he caught a glimpse of a familiar form slipping through the rear doors of the nave. For a minute, Steve considered ignoring the minor intrusion, but it wouldn't solve anything.

With a faint sigh, he slipped out of the pew and walked back up the aisle, stopping at the end of the pew. Really, it wasn't a bad choice to send after him. Bruce fit in with the ragged homeless men better than any of the others would, and he'd chosen an empty row in which to seat himself. Bruce glanced up at him, a faint smile on his face. “So. Fancy meeting you here,” he said to Steve.

Steve just looked at him for a second. “Didn't know you were Catholic,” he said at last.

Bruce opened his mouth. Closed it. “It's possible,” he said with a faint smile, “that I'm not.”

Steve nodded, his hands jammed deep in his pockets. “How'd you end up with this op?” he asked, a faint smile playing across his lips. 

Bruce's head dipped down, one hand pushing through the tangled locks of his hair. “I volunteered,” he said, his eyes canting up, a bemused smile on his face. 

“Yeah?” Steve nodded at the pew next to him, and Bruce obligingly slid over. Steve took a seat next to him, slumping forward, resting his forearms on his knees, his head hanging down. “No offense, Doc, but that was dumb.” He glanced over, a faint smile on his lips, and Bruce smiled back, his mouth twitching.

“Probably,” Bruce said, his head bobbing in a nod. His head tipped back, the light rolling over the lenses of his glasses, whiting them out. “But they were- Everyone was worrying,” he said, his tone apologetic. “And that meant someone was going to end up out here, trying to talk to you.”

He hooked a finger under the stem of his glasses, pulling them off of his nose. “If it was Natasha, or Clint, it might've taken you longer to figure out that you were being followed, and that didn't seem fair.” He studied his lenses, fishing a handkerchief from his pocket. “Thor's not so good at noticing when people don't want to talk, and Tony's, well...” His voice trailed away. His eyes flicked towards Steve, a faint, apologetic smile on his face. “Tony's Tony.”

Steve gave a faint huff of a laugh. “That's one way of putting it.” The strains of the music washed over him, the sound of the organ filling the cold air. “He seems to be, well, especially Tony right now.” It was exhausting, sometimes, trying to keep up with Tony; even listening to Tony was too much on occasion. 

Bruce's chin dipped. “Think it's the time of the year,” he said. “His parents, well. You know.”

Steve did know. He'd read Howard Stark's file, and he remembered the date of death stamped there, the numbers cold and unconcerned. There was no time for sympathy or grief in military files, Steve knew that better than most. But the march of dates, one after another, had worn him down, worn him thin. Too much grief, too fast, for him to process at the time, but he remembered. Remembered that a seventeen year old boy had been left alone, right before Christmas.

He didn't doubt that Tony's sharp edges and sharp tongue right now had a lot to do with that unresolved loss.

“You don't like this time of year much either, do you?” he asked, his voice soft, and Bruce's fingers stilled on the lenses of his glasses. Steve glanced over. “Sorry if that's too personal.”

Bruce's shoulders rose and fell beneath the fabric of his ill-fitting jacket. “No,” he said. “I don't have many pleasant memories of this time of year, to be honest. It's just cold, and some bad... I'm not...” The words trailed away. “I try to keep it from showing. I don't want to ruin other people's celebrations.”

“No, I know that, but...” Steve took a breath. “You can just say that you're not interested, you know. You don't have to...” He paused, considering. “Put up with it,” he said at last.

“I know. I mean, yes, of course, I know that.”

“Do you?” Steve asked.

Bruce gave him a look. “I can excuse myself. To a point. Have you ever tried to tell Tony 'no'?”

“I can-”

Bruce's smile was much brighter, much less strained this time. “No, you can't.” He slid his glasses back onto his nose, his fingers covering his eyes for a moment. “But anyways. We were worried. You've been slipping out at night. A lot.”

“Didn't know I had a curfew,” Steve said, trying for lightness and failing. His fingers flexed, sharp angles of bone beneath his skin, and he looked away. 

“You don't,” Bruce said, easily enough. “But we just want to, you know, make sure you're okay.” He shrugged again. “So here I am, seeing if you're okay.” He glanced up, towards the vaulted ceiling. “I figured you'd be walking around, getting some exercise. Didn't expect to find you here.” A faint smile on his face, he added, “In that I didn't know you were Catholic, either.”

Steve gave a faint, unamused laugh. “Mostly because I'm not. Bucky, he was the Catholic. Good Irish Catholic boy,” Steve said, and the words hurt. But they were a relief to get out, despite the pain. “I would tag along, sometimes. Especially during the winter.”

Bruce gave a faint laugh. “Why winter?”

“Well, they'd have meals after services, a lot. Lean times, but there was food. There was always food. I might not have been a parishioner, but I didn't eat much, and they were kind enough to turn a blind eye on my presence.” Bucky dragged him along in his wake, most of the time. It was Bucky and Steve, and Steve was accepted because Bucky wouldn't let anyone turn him away. Steve took a deep breath, trying to still the ache in his chest. “But back then? The pews were always full, even on the coldest days. It was cold, you know, because buildings like this, they were never intended to be comfortable.”

“Cold in the winter, hot in the summer,” Bruce agreed, his lips twitching.

“Yeah.” Steve's head tipped back, and he stared up at the rose window, at the fractured bits of jewel tone there, so high above the alter. “But the pews were full, packed full. So it was cold outside, but you got pushed in, between people, you ended up warm just because you were half under someone else's coat, under their arm, pushed up tight to the person next to you.”

He looked at Bruce, and his grin felt more natural now. “So back then, the warmth of the congregation? It was less a metaphysical idea and more a literal thing you could rely on.” He scraped a hand over his face, trying to remember, trying to forget. The press of Bucky's body along his side, so close and so tight that Steve could feel the vibration of his breath when he sang, could feel the flex of muscle and bone when he shifted, when he went to his knees, when he stood to take communion.

“I never belonged, not really,” Steve said aloud, his voice faint, old somehow. 

“You don't believe.” It wasn't a question, but when Steve glanced over, Bruce was looking at him, a faintly questioning tilt to his brows.

“I guess not,” Steve said. “Seen too many things, or maybe not enough.” His fingers flexed again, and he forced them flat. “But I'd find churches. All along the front. There were always churches.” His eyes closed. “Where God was, I never found, but churches, I could find churches. Some of the guys, they prayed, or just tried to find a chaplain to talk to, but me...” His lashes lifted, his eyes going up with them, up towards the broad windows. “I just stood. Found what peace I could.”

Bruce nodded. “It's tempting, isn't it?” he asked, staring down at his folded hands. The fingers twisted together, flexing tight. “To find solace here. There's a quiet sort of stillness to churches, no matter where they are, and it's kind of a relief. I found a church or two myself, when I was...” He shrugged. “When I was lost.”

“Do you? Believe?” Steve asked. He gestured up, at the arched ceiling, at the stained glass windows, at the crucifix. “In this? I mean, you're a scientist, I-”

“It's not exclusive, faith and fact,” Bruce said, his face splitting in a grin. “I know a lot of scientists and engineers who have managed to make their peace between the two.”

“But you're not one of them?”

Bruce was silent for a long moment, so long that Steve wasn't sure that he was going to answer at all. The strains of “Silent Night” filled the space between them, and on the organ, it was towering, soaring. “Betty said,” Bruce said at last, interrupting the run of notes, “that your relationship with God has a lot to do with your relationship with your father.” 

Steve thought about that. “She might have a point.”

Bruce smiled. “She usually does. Never knew what that meant, for her.” He looked at Steve, his eyes sad. “What does it mean for you?”

“I never knew my father,” Steve said, tired. “And I've never known God. But I envy those who do. And I live my life so that if I someday have to face either of them, I can hold my head up.”

“So he'll be proud of you?” Bruce asked, not specifying which 'he' was meant.

Steve looked at him. “So I can be proud of myself. So I can be sure, no matter what any one else thinks, that I'm as good a man as I'm capable of being.” He managed a faint smile. “Because, in the end? I don't think I'm going to be accountable to anyone else. Or if I am, what he thinks of me isn't so important as the fact that I know I've done the best I can do.” Bruce didn't say anything, and Steve looked away. “What about you?” he asked.

Bruce's head dipped down. “I was always better off when both of them ignored my existence,” he said, his voice lacking bitterness or anger. There was only resignation there. “Because when either remembered, neither one of them has ever been particularly kind.” 

The simple statement washed over Steve, taking the breath from his lungs, and Steve's eyes closed. “I'm sorry.”

“Thank you,” Bruce said, his voice soft. “But I've made my peace with both of them.” There was a faint smile on his lips, but it didn't reach his eyes. “I guess that's why I let everyone drag me along, when it comes to Christmas. Tony and Clint and Thor, all of them, really. I let them drag me along, even though it's not my favorite time of year, too many memories, too much baggage, because I refuse to give up. I guess I'm still looking for something.”

“What's that?” he asked.

Bruce's eyes closed, just for a second. When they opened again, they were clear and bright. “Hope. I gave up on it, a long time ago, and that was worse. That was horrible.” He leaned his head back. “So I keep trying. I keep looking. I fight with myself, at this time of year, but honesty?” he looked at Steve. “This year is a little easier. It's easier to...” He paused, and the word came out as a breath, almost reverent. “Hope.”

Steve stared down at his hands. “You know where I go? When I go out at night now?” he asked at last. His fingers were linked together so hard that the knuckles were white. A child at prayer. He pulled his hands apart. “There's, there's this empty lot in my old- In Brooklyn. Not far from where I grew up. And there's, right now, someone's selling Christmas trees there. 

“He's a nice old fella,” Steve said. “He's from Ghana, originally, so we talk about the cold a lot, him and me, we both... Aren't fans of the cold. But despite that, he's dedicated, you know, he's always got a smile and he's tough. Despite the cold.” Steve paused. Swallowed. “I pay him. Give him money so that, people who can't-” He stopped again, the words failing him. He exhaled. “I give him some cash, and tell him, make sure that no one leaves empty handed, as long as this holds out.”

Steve shoved a hand through his hair. “He's done this for years, I guess. He knows people. He's smart, but he knows people. He knows which ones will accept that someone else paid for their tree, and the ones who won't accept anything for free, but they'll take a discount. You know, twenty dollars instead of forty. He has the kids choose a bigger tree, or a better one, and tells the parents that they're damaged, or something, sells them for cheaper. Makes up the difference with what I give him.” His eyes closed, just for a second, and he savored the darkness. “But he makes sure, for a little while, that everyone gets a tree.”

Bruce was watching him, his dark eyes hard to read. Steve avoided meeting those eyes, staring up at stained glass window above them. “And I just stand there and watch. Sometimes, sometimes I make myself useful, sometimes I help move the trees, hold them up for a family trying to decide, wrap one up, or carry one home for someone, but-”

The words died for a second, and next to him, Bruce was silent. Patient. Waiting. “It's the same thing as church with Bucky,” he said, his voice leaden. “It's stolen warmth. I'm still-” His fingers flexed against the planes of his thighs. “It's like I'm trying to feel something again. It's Christmas, and everyone's happy, everyone's buying things, and doing things, and I can't...”

He stopped, frustration washing over him. “They're all so happy, or hopeful, or even if they're not, they're still trying. Some of them, you can tell, they can barely pay for food, or utilities, but they want a tree. A real tree. Either because they can't afford investing in a fake one, or they have no place to put it, or they just want to have a real tree, I don't know.” Steve swallowed. “I thought that I was helping people, I told myself that I was helping people, but I think I was just helping myself. I was doing it so that I could feel something again, and it's not working.

“I'm on the outside, and I don't know if I belong. I don't think I do.”

Bruce took an audible breath. “Geez, Steve...”

“I know, I know.” Steve shook his head, his eyes rolling up towards the ceiling, a humorless smile on his face. “I know. I just-” He stared, unseeing, upwards. “I don't belong here. And I try to think of all the good things, the hope and the joy and the promise of a better year to come, and I can't manage it.”

He rubbed his eyes, hard enough to see stars. “I'm a mess, aren't I?”

“A little,” Bruce agreed. He ran a hand through his hair. “Look, I'm the last person to-” He stopped, and sighed. He looked at Steve, even as his hands went to the pockets of his coats. “I'm not really the best person to talk to.” He paused, his brow furrowing. “Or maybe I am. About this. I don't know anymore. I'm so out of touch with human contact that I feel like I'm screwing it up every time I talk to anyone.”

His hand came out of his pocket, and he held up a plastic bag. “Here,” he said, opening it, and fishing out a cookie. He offered it to Steve, who took it, too surprised to question the gesture. It was a little lopsided and crumbling at the edges, dusted with sugar and cinnamon.

“Snickerdoodle,” Bruce said, and Steve blinked at him. “The cookie. It's a snickerdoodle.” As if that explained everything, he pulled another one out of the bag, taking a bite. “I made them.”

Steve took a cautious bite, and the cookie melted on his tongue, light and rich, with a burst spice. “It's good,” he said, after he swallowed.

“Thanks.” Bruce stared straight ahead. “They're not the most common cookie. They, uh, they need cream of tarter, which not every kitchen has. And they're best right when they're warm, after that they can get a little hard and they fall apart really easily.” He studied the half of a cookie in his hand. “It's a cookie that's almost always homemade.” 

He took a deep breath. “Have you thought that maybe, Steve, it wasn't stolen heat?” 

Steve looked at him, to tired to really think about anything. “What?”

“Maybe it never was. Maybe the reason why that pew was always so crowded is because they knew you needed that heat, and they stayed close to give it to you.” His eyes crinkled as his smile stretched. “Steve, more things are freely given then you might believe.”

Steve realized that he was holding his breath, and exhaled. “I don't-” He took another bite of his cookie, to have an excuse not to talk. It was a pretty obvious attempt to hide his silence, but Bruce didn't say anything about that. Instead, he just held out the bag.

“You need to go out at night, you do that,” he said, his voice quiet. “You need to help other people, and question your motives to that, you do that. We just-” His smile was lopsided, uneven. “Want to make sure you can come home when you need to.”

Steve looked at him. “Home is a hard concept,” he said at last.

“For me, too,” Bruce said. He tilted the bag forward. “But we've got homemade cookies. That's a good first step, right?”

Steve took it, liking the way it crumbled in his fingers, just a little bit. “I guess it is,” he said with a smile. And something tight and painful in his gut loosened, in a way that made his eyes sting. He put he cookie in his mouth and it was an odd sort of communion, an acceptance of things he couldn't change. He remembered, with startling clarity, the way Bucky would talk about confession, about how he felt empty and washed clean, a moment of purity as he stepped out of the confessional.

Steve had never really understood that, but now, as the organ notes rose, and he savored the taste of the cookie, the words had been said and he was absolved. Forgiven. For all those who had died, while he had lived. All those forgotten, when he was still remembered. 

For the fact that he had a home to go to.

“You know they're out there, right?” Bruce asked, and Steve laughed.

The thought didn't hurt, didn't make him angry, didn't frustrate him. He just smiled, and it felt right and natural on his face. For the first time in a long time, he smiled, because he wanted to smile. “I figured as much,” he said, and Bruce offered him another cookie. Steve took it.

Bruce nodded. “There is no way they didn't follow me,” he said. “I'd apologize for that, but... I'm not actually sorry.” His smile stretched. “It's kind of nice to know that someone would notice if we don't come home. It's nice to think that we aren't...” 

His voice trailed off, and Steve studied the cookie in his hand. It was broken, and the cinnamon sugar had mostly rubbed off on one side, but he closed his eyes and put it in his mouth, letting it melt on his tongue, sweet and spicy. It tasted familiar, in a way that he couldn't define. But he didn't question it. “Forgotten,” he said. “Alone.”

Bruce was smiling at him. “We can stay,” Bruce offered.

Steve considered it. “I think,” he said, pushing himself up, “that I'm ready to go.” He met Bruce's eyes. “Ready to go home,” he said, feeling out the words, and they felt right somehow.

Bruce stood, tucking the mostly empty bag back in his pocket. “You know,” he said, his head tipped forward. “If you ever want some company when you're walking around...” His voice trailed away.

Steve looked at him. “Thank you,” he said, and the words were far more grateful than the simple sentence would indicate. “I just might take you up on that.” 

Together, they headed up the aisle. “How are you at helping people pick out Christmas trees?” he asked.

Bruce considered that. “I'm not wearing a Santa hat.”

“Understood.” Steve set his palm against the door of the church. He was pretty sure that out there, beyond the door, his team was waiting for him. Thor would be wearing a Santa hat without a trace of shame, and Tony would be holding a bright red Starbucks cup in each hand, huddled into his coat with a scowl that didn't reach his eyes, that's why he'd be wearing his sunglasses in the middle of the night. Clint had been tormenting them all with a piece of mistletoe for days, and Natasha hadn't broken his arm yet, but maybe tonight was the night. Bruce still had cookies in his pocket, and a smile on his face, and Steve was smiling, too, as he pushed open the door and stepped out into the streets of New York. Stepping out of the past and into the chaotic, frustrating present, and heading home. 

He was pretty sure Bucky would've liked that, too.


	3. February- Valentine's Day

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Soooooooooo I somehow missed January.
> 
> Don't know how that happened. I thought for sure I'd written something up for January, and yet it would appear that I did not. My apologies, I'll get that corrected as soon as possible.
> 
> For February, please enjoy Valentine's Day in the Tower. This was previously published on my Tumblr, so sorry for the repeat for those of you who follow me there. 8)

“At what point does looking someone up on Facebook become stalking?”

Tony hummed into his coffee cup. “Okay,” he said at last, eyes narrowed, “that question assumes A. that I have a Facebook account that I, personally, have some interaction with, which is a false assumption, and B. that I would resort to looking at someone's public FACEBOOK page to gain information on them.”

Bruce considered him, a half-eaten triangle of toast hanging forgotten in his hand. “You are not the proper person to ask about this,” he said at last.

“I am SO not the proper person to ask about this,” Tony agreed, grinning. “Barton? Facebook stalking seems more your speed.”

“Yeah, you take stalking to whole new levels of crazy,” Clint agreed. He leaned over, considering the oven with narrowed eyes. As Bruce watched, he punched something into the timer before he straightened up. Wiping his hands on a tea towel, he added, “How have you not gotten arrested yet?”

“I'm adorable,” Tony said. He pointed a finger in Clint's direction. “Also, I would have to care about an ex enough to go stalking.”

“I'm pretty sure you have a dedicated satellite that exists only to track Steve at this point,” Clint shot back, arms crossed over his chest. He smirked in Tony's direction. 

“That is not an ex,” Tony said, trying and failing to approach dignity.

“You don't really-” Bruce started, partially horrified and partially resigned, and Tony cut him off with the wave of a hand.

“Of course I don't, satellites are monitored.” Tony's lips quirked. “I prefer to do nothing that Fury can conclusively trace back to me.” He grinned over the lip of his coffee cup. “Makes the legal team so much happier.”

“Stark, you are one creepy son-of-a-bitch,” Clint said. He threw himself into a chair at the table and reached for the toast. “I'll make you some more, Doc, but I am starving here.”

Bruce nudged the jam in his direction. “Go ahead.” He stood up. “So, Facebook...” he prompted.

“Looking someone up, and checking out their public stuff, that's fine,” Clint said, his mouth full. “If you start making fake logins and going through their photo albums, even the real old ones? Lines have been crossed.” He leaned back in his chair, balancing it on the back two legs. “Big ol' lines of demarcation.”

Bruce nodded as he offered bread to the toaster. Calcifer was overly excited by this, so just to give the little guy something extra to do, Bruce pulled a packet of Pop Tarts from the cabinet. “Extra crispy, please,” he told the toaster, who rattled at him. To Clint and Tony, he said, “I just looked up her Facebook page. To see if she was okay. And I still feel like a creeper.”

“Yeah, but you have an exceptionally well developed sense of morality,” Clint pointed out. He finished his toast in two bites. “It's a problem.”

“Thanks, I think,” Bruce said with a faint smile. The toaster popped and nudged his arm half a dozen times to make sure he was aware that it was done. “Thanks, buddy,” he said, reaching for a plate. “Yes, I know, good job, thank you.”

“Is this because of Valentine's Day?” Tony asked, ambling over to steal a Pop Tart. He bit into it, getting crumbs everywhere. 

“I guess. A little bit.” Bruce shook his head. “Never mind.” He carried the plate to the table and took his seat again. “Do you have plans?”

“I have excellent plans,” Tony said. “Dinner, dancing, a whirlwind tour of the city in an obnoxiously big car with a couple of magnums of champagne...” Tony nodded, quirking an eyebrow. “I won't be doing any of them, but my plans, let me tell you, I have some wonderful plans.”

“What will you be doing?” Clint asked him, grinning.

“Captain Rogers has decided that a romantic picnic for two on the tower roof is what is in store for us tonight.” Tony stared morosely into his coffee cup.

“A picnic?” Bruce asked, frowning.

“Yep,” Tony said.

“On the roof?” Clint asked.

“Just so,” Tony said.

“He does know it's February, doesn't he?” Bruce asked, trying to bite back a smile. “February. In... New York. Which is not known for it's picnic weather on street level, let alone this far up?”

“I have, in fact, explained these things to him. He is unmoved by logic or my hatred of being cold.” Tony shuddered, an elaborate little twitch. “I am expected to endure.”

“Long underwear,” Clint advised, and the look of horror that Tony leveled in his direction was enough to make him burst out laughing. “Hey, it's your junk that'll be freezing off up there. Which would you prefer to have, aesthetics, or a pulse?”

“I refuse to die in long johns,” Tony said. “I'll fake hypothermia and I'm sure he'll bring me inside before things start falling off.” He wandered over to the coffee pot. “I plan on spending the evening in front of the fire. Preferably naked. Let that serve as the one and only warning any of you will get, yes, I will be naked in the living room tonight.”

“Remind me not to leave my glasses in there,” Bruce said to Clint, who grinned at him.

“Oh, please. There is not a single chance that he'll get Cap's pants off in the living room.”

“You underestimate my skills,” Tony said.

“I really, really do not. Enjoy the roof,” Clint said, smirking at him. “I'll lend you a nice pair of fluffy mittens.”

“I hate you, Barton, truly, there is hate in my heart for you.” There was no heat in the words, just a calm statement of fact. That probably had something to do with the fact that he was on his third cup of coffee. “I shall have you evicted and your meager possessions tossed into the street while you're out tonight.” He toasted Clint with his cup. “So you've got that to look forward to.”

“Do you have plans?” Bruce asked Clint, who rolled his eyes.

“Valentine's day is complicated,” he said with a shrug. “Phil does not approve.”

“Not one for the romantic industrial complex?” Tony asked.

“Do not even get him started on it,” Clint said. The timer went off on the oven, and he rolled to his feet. “The resulting diatribe will light your hair on fire.”

“Does Coulson diatribe?” Tony asked. “I thought he just deadpanned. Snarked and deadpanned.”

“I don't think any of those words work where you've used them,” Bruce told him, grinning.

“I got the gist of it,” Clint said. “And yes, Phil diatribes.” He opened the oven and leaned over. “Not about many things, but Valentine's Day is one of them.”

“So you're not doing anything?” Bruce asked.

“Oh, we're doing something,” Clint said. “I made the mistake of not doing anything a few years back. I learn from my nearly fatal errors.” He slid the baking sheet out of the oven. “I send flowers, I make dinner reservations, I fucking bake. And the words Valentine's Day are never, every spoken.” He paused, giving them a truly terrifying sniper's stare. “Ever.” 

“Gotcha,” Bruce said. His watch beeped, and he jammed the last piece of toast in his mouth as he checked it. “That's my five minute warning,” he said, scrambling up. “Gotta get back to the lab.”

“Hey,” Tony said, catching him before he could slip out the door. “Really, big guy. You okay? You want company today?”

Bruce considered him. “That's very nice of you, but no, thanks, really.”

Tony waved him off. “Let's go see what's cooking in the lab.”

He shook his head. “You're just trying to get out of picnic on the roof, Tony.”

“Yes,” Tony said. “Just happens that my attempts to survive dovetail nicely with the fact that I'd very much like to see what you've got down in the centrifuge right now.”

“Uh-huh,” Bruce said, but he couldn't quite hold back a grin as he followed Tony out of the kitchen. “Good luck, Clint!”

“Hey, they don't call me cupid for nothing.”

Tony paused, and leaned back in. “No one calls you cupid. Many things, you are called. Many obscene and impolite things. But cupid? No.”

Clint gave him an obnoxious grin. “It's nothing compared to what they call you, Stark.”

“You may collect your possessions on the curb by eight pm,” Tony said, and Bruce burst out laughing.

*

“Delivery,” Natasha said from the door way of the lab. 

Bruce looked up from his microscope. “Hi,” he said, giving her a smile, and she returned it.

“Evening, Doc,” she said, setting a box on the counter. “Stark, don't you have somewhere to be?”

Tony was staring down at a chemical breakdown, scribbling notes in the margins as his eyes flicked over the data. “Uh-huh,” he said, pushing a hand through his hair. “One... One sec, I gotta-”

“It's six,” Natasha said. 

“Fuck,” Tony said, jerking up right. “Okay, all right, just-” He stabbed a finger in Bruce's direction. “Just leave that, I'll get it recalibrated tomorrow, there's no way we're getting that kind of a result, there's gotta be a mechanical issue here, I'll-”

“Tick-tock,” Natasha said, crossing her arms over her chest.

“Harpy,” Tony said, making Natasha grin as she angled her head in his direction.

“Be glad it's me and not Steve, looking sad.” She reached into the box. “Catch.” She flipped the package to Tony, who caught it one-handed. “From Clint.”

Tony glanced at the long underwear. “Barton isn't nearly as funny as he thinks he is.”

“True.” She shook her head as Tony stomped out of the lab, still mumbling to himself. She leaned against the lab bench. “What's that face for, Doc?” she asked Bruce with an arched eyebrow.

“It's five,” Bruce pointed out.

Natasha's teeth flashed. “Is it? My mistake.”

Bruce chuckled. “Looking out for Rogers?”

“Looking out for Stark,” she said. “Steve knows what he's getting into, Tony sometimes loses track of time.” She nudged the box with her elbow. “Since I'm the only one without plans tonight, I come bearing gifts.”

“Really.” Bruce watched his readout, stirring slowly to keep the particulates in solution. “From who?”

“Clint sends you cupcakes, in honor of the day,” Natasha said, lifting out a white pastry box. “Chocolate with pink frosting, because he's classy. Strawberry cream, not cherry, he made a point of telling me that. Also that I should say 'Happy Valentine's Day.'” She paused for a beat. “Happy Valentine's Day, Bruce.”

“Thank you. And it's strawberry because I don't like cherry flavoring,” Bruce said, smiling.

“So you got your own cupcakes, because cherry is Phil's favorite,” Natasha said. “And this is from SHIELD, by way of one Agent Coulson.” She held out a SHIELD file folder.

Bruce frowned. “What is it?” Wiping his hands, he reached for it.

“The report on Betty Ross.”

Bruce froze, and then he pulled his hand back. “Thanks,” he said, cursing his big mouth earlier. Of course, it wasn't hard to fill out. How many ex-girlfriends did a guy like him have? Of course, it was easy enough to figure out. Even if no one asked. They'd all known. “But I shouldn't-”

Natasha didn't move. “There's nothing classified or invasive here,” she said, her voice calm. “But because of her connection with you, for her own safety and security, SHIELD has been watching her since you first disappeared, Bruce.” She leaned over and set the file in front of him. “That's what you were looking for, wasn't it? Not personal information. Just that she was all right.” She tapped a finger against the folder. “She has been protected. And she will be protected. For your sake, as well as hers.”

Bruce didn't want to, but he reached for the folder, sliding it out from under her hand. He didn't open it though. For some reason, just having it in front of him was comforting. “Thank you,” he said. “Why today?”

“Because it was bothering you today,” she said, as if that was all that mattered. “Our boys might not appear to pay attention, but they can pick up on a cue.” She waved a hand in his direction. “And it was easy enough for Phil to get for you.”

He shook his head. “Pathetic,” he said, but he didn't push the file away.

“Human,” she said. One shoulder rose and fell in a half-shrug. “We all worry about those who get left behind, Bruce. There's no shame in it.”

Taking a deep breath, Bruce managed, “Yeah.” He glanced up. “You don't have plans for today? You know, because, well, Valentine's?”

“Nothing compared to Clint's,” she said, with a smile. “No one's seen Jane or Thor all day, so I believe we all know what their plans are. And we can only hope that Stark and Rogers don't freeze to death.”

“Oh, they won't,” Bruce said. He studied the file, his fingers stroking over the cover. “Steve won't stay out there long.” Natasha was silent, and he glanced up to meet her eyes. “Obviously.”

“Obviously,” she said, eyes narrowed. “Why do you think-”

Bruce shook his head. “It's just, you know Tony. He gets something in his head, he starts planning and if you don't figure a way to distract him, or refocus his attention, he gets going on an idea and then the next thing you know, everything's, well-” He waved a hand. “Stark Tower.”

Natasha grinned. “Stark Tower?”

“A little showy?” Bruce shrugged when she laughed. “So he started out with dinner reservations, and it just kept getting bigger and more ornate from there, because, you know, I think he is a romantic. He likes big gestures, he likes throwing his weight around, impressing people. But Steve was just getting more and more uncomfortable with it, I think he was, well, he wanted Tony. Not Tony and the paparazzi and seven waiters and a sommelier and a driver and the StarkIndustries Press Liaison and, well...” Bruce tapped the end of his pen against the file folder. “So I think he pulled a power play that Tony would hate, but couldn't 'improve.'”

Natasha shook her head as she crossed to his desk and took a seat. “So Steve is going to, what? Meet Tony outside and then escort him back into the living room, where the meal will be set up in front of the fireplace? Warm and toasty?”

“And Tony will be so desperately grateful that he's not freezing his ass off outside that he'll completely bypass the fact that he was outmaneuvered,” Bruce agreed. He reached for his coffee. It was cold, and sour, and he made a face, but he drank it. “Can I ask you something?”

“Of course.”

“What's the deal with Clint and Coulson and Valentine's Day?”

“For that information,” she said, “I have a question of my own.” 

“Okay,” Bruce said, a little cautious now.

Natasha leaned back in his chair. “Did you know about the two of them before either of them told you?”

Bruce glanced up. “Sorry?” He reached for the Bunsen burner, adjusting the flame. “Sorry, what?”

She smiled, her lips curling up. “You knew about Clint and Phil, long before they made the choice to tell everyone.”

Bruce's hands stilled, just for a second, then he went back to his work. Shaking his head, he said, “Uh, no, I don't-” He pushed a hand through his hair. “No.”

Natasha gave a faint laugh. “You're a lousy liar, Doc.” She picked up a scientific journal, leafing through it idly. “Tony was oblivious, and Steve takes everything people tell him at face value, if he trusts them. Thor doesn't draw the lines between friend and lover the same way we do.” Her eyes flicked up, her lips curling up with the sweep of her lashes. “But you. You watch. And you're quiet, but you don't miss much.”

He paused. “When you spend time on the run,” he said, and he knew she knew, “you watch people. You watch, because, well-”

“You need to decide if someone's a threat or not,” Natasha filled in. “If someone's going to be a problem.”

“Yes.” Bruce flexed his shoulders, trying to work the kinks from his muscles. “I got into the habit. A long time on my own; it was important to watch my own back, you know.” His back ached, and he straightened up. “And I'm pretty quiet, so-”

“You caught them,” Natasha said. There was an unfamiliar note in her voice, and Bruce glanced at her. She was smiling. “That's impressive. They're usually very discreet.”

“Not really. Just a suspicion.” Bruce tucked his hands in the pockets of his lab coat. “It was, well, the mission in Fargo. Where Coulson was on the West coast, and caught up with us after it was all over.”

Her eyes sparked in the lights. “Clint was clipped by broken glass, wasn't he?”

“Yes. But Tony was knocked out, and I was dealing with that while we waited for evac. When he was awake, I thought I'd check on Clint. I assumed one of the medics had taken care of him, but I figured I could check. But it was Coulson, you know, that was helping him.”

Clint had been sitting on the edge of the bench, bent forward, bare to the waist. Coulson's jacket was off, his sleeves rolled to the elbow, his gloved hands removing the shards of glass with tweezers and gloved fingers. The blue nitrile was marked with blood, but Coulson's hands were steady, careful. In front of him, Clint was resting his elbows on his knees, his head hanging down. As Coulson's fingers stroked over his skin, his shoulders had flexed, but his breathing was steady.

“I didn't catch them at anything,” Bruce said. But there had been something, something about their posture, about the way Clint was silent, his lips parted and his eyes closed, the way that Coulson's face was pinched, sharp lines beside his eyes, around his mouth. Something about the way he paused, after extracting a shard of glass, his fingers resting against Clint's skin. Something about the way that Clint's muscles tensed beneath his skin with each touch.

Something had told him that this was more than medical treatment. This was an act of comfort on a very personal level.

“I didn't know. But I thought,” he said. His shoulders rose and fell in a quick shrug. “That maybe they were together. That way. But I didn't know, not really. It wasn't any of my business, anyway.”

“But you knew,” she said.

“I knew,” he admitted. He gave her a sideways look. “So? What happened with Valentine's Day with those two?”

“I bet you can guess.”

Bruce thought about it. “Miscommunication?”

Natasha grinned, wide and easy. “Good call, Doc.”

Bruce laughed. “What happened?”

“Coulson was having a bad day, or a bad decade, depending on how you think about it. Since he was facing Valentine's Day with an unrequited crush on an agent reporting to him, he spent February 13th getting, well, raging drunk, more so than I've ever seen him. So on the 14th, he was sitting in his office, nursing a headache and a hangover and a very bad cup of coffee, when Clint came in and, oblivious to the situation, gave him a sampler box of chocolates with Spongebob Squarepants on the lid.”

“Ouch,” Bruce said, trying not to smile, because it wasn't funny, it really wasn't, except it was.

“Ouch indeed,” Natasha agreed. “Considering it was one of those-” She made a little heart with her hands. “About this size, clearly intended for a child to give to a teacher or other adult.”

“How'd that go?” Bruce asked, reaching for a beaker. 

“Coulson had a meltdown,” Natasha said, smiling about it. “It's Coulson, so it was a controlled meltdown, but he had words. Really strong words. For the general concept of Valentine's Day in general.”

“And Clint missed the point of this particular meltdown.”

“Went over his head by about a mile and a half, because Clint is very good at missing the fact that people might care about him,” Natasha said. Without being prompted, she handed Bruce a rack of pipettes. “Clint beat a hasty retreat, Phil nursed his headache, and no one brought it up again.”

Bruce gave her a look over the top of his glasses. “Until they started dating.”

“Dating is such a mild term for what they were doing,” Natasha said. “Which contributed to the problem.”

Bruce paused in the act of filling the tiny vials. “Let me guess. They weren't really public about their relationship. And due to Coulson's views on the matter, Barton made what seemed to be the correct choice to let Valentine's day pass without acknowledging it.”

“It's like you were there,” Natasha said.

“How'd that work for him?” Bruce asked.

Natasha paused. “Not well,” she said, her lips twitching. “Not very well at all.”

Bruce shook his head. “I need to stop gossiping about our teammates,” he said.

“If you do, who'll I talk to?” Natasha said, her lips curling up in a little cat that got the cream smile. 

“Clint.”

“He's horrible at it, though,” Natasha said, making a face. “For an agent with a security clearance, he can't keep a secret to save his life.” She shook her head, and gave Bruce a smile. “What are your plans for tonight?”

Bruce paused. Rubbed his thumb over the curve of his petri dish. “I have an experiment running,” he said, and he watched as her head tipped. “But it's Thursday. Even if everyone else has, well, has plans, I was considering a movie.”

Natasha arched an eyebrow. “It is Thursday,” she agreed.

“Yeah, it is.”

“A classic might be nice.”

“It might.” He paused, rattled his fingers against the lab bench. “I don't know why. But I feel like playing chess tonight.” He gave Natasha a faint smile. “Don't suppose you're up for a game?”

“I could be persuaded,” Natasha said, her eyes dancing. “Casablanca?”

“I could be persuaded,” he said. “Tea and some simple food?”

“I happen to know where I can get our hands on some fresh bread, cheese, that sort of thing,” she said. She pushed away from the counter. “I'll get a tray, if you get the chess board.”

Bruce smiled, and it felt good on his face, it felt natural in a way that he couldn't have dreamed a few years ago, or even a few months ago. He rested his hand on the file folder. There was comfort in the solid object. “Natasha? Is she okay?”

Natasha paused. “She is safe. She is fine,” she said, smiling. “SHIELD has been watching over her. She's safe, Bruce. We wouldn't leave her unprotected.”

He nodded. “Thank you for that.” He removed his glasses, folded them and shrugged out of his lab coat. “Sure you don't have anything better to do tonight?” he asked her.

“A night of chess and cinema with a friend sounds perfect to me.” She handed him the pastry box. “And we have dessert.”

“We do.” Grinning, relaxed, he followed her out of the lab. Everything would still be there tomorrow. Including him.

And tonight was a night for friends and lovers.


	4. April- Easter and Earth Day

"So we're all in agreement that if this was me? If I was doing this? This would be defined as white trash. Right? We all agree with this?" Clint asked.

Natasha leaned against his back, one arm draped across his chest, her chin braced on his shoulder. "Yes, but it's not. It's Coulson. He automatically classes things up."

"Thank you," Coulson said, his lips twitching. "I think."

"I cannot think of this as classy," Tony groused from the kitchen table. His eyes were at half mast, his hands wrapped around his coffee mug with enough force to splinter the ceramic. "This is- The idea is nauseating."

Coulson gave him a look, his slotted spoon held at the ready. "I have seen what you regularly consume," he said, his voice dry. "This? Is fairly innocuous for you."

"It's eggs," Tony said, loathing in each syllable. "Poached in boiling maple syrup."

"Yes. Yes, it is," Coulson said, grinning down at the pot. "And it's a Coulson family Easter tradition."

"They're like candy," Clint said. He sounded way too happy about this. "It's amazing."

Steve leaned against the counter, studying the pot with interest. The rich, dark liquid was bubbling along, and the scent of sugar hung in the air. He wasn't much for sweet things for breakfast, but this actually smelled great. He considered making pancakes. "If they're so good, why don't you make them more often?" he asked Coulson

"My family only made them once a year because, well, good quality maple syrup is expensive," Coulson said. He checked the timer. "Also, if you have them often, they're not special."

"Also, diabetes," Natasha said. 

Steve chuckled. "Maybe not the best thing to give a kid every morning, huh?"

"No, so they wait for the day when the kid is going to be stuffed to the gils with chocolate, jelly beans, licorice, creme filled eggs, caramel..." Tony said, still clinging to his coffee cup like it was the last lifeline in a stormy sea. 

"I think," Steve said, watching the process with a smile, "that the idea was to trick the kids into at least eating a real egg before they started in on the chocolate ones."

"It's a real egg. Crystalized in maple syrup," Tony said. "It's... It's literally a candied egg."

"It still contains protein and at least a little bit of nutritional value," Coulson told him. "Wishful thinking, perhaps, but that's the only thing that keeps parents from eating their young some days."

"'Still a strange thing to do," Tony said.

"Do you not want one?" Coulson asked him.

Tony shuddered. “No. No, I do not want one. I will stick with my bagel.” The toaster heard the word 'bagel' and perked up with a rattle of his bread slots. “No. I already have one,” Tony told it. “I don't need another bagel. No. Stop. Go sit and- No more bagels!”

“Stop saying b-a-g-e-l,” Clint told Tony. “You're getting him all worked up.”

“He can spell, you moron,” Tony said.

“Why can he spell?”

"Never claimed my family was normal," Coulson said. “But we just eat maple syrup eggs. You have a pet toaster, Stark.”

“My toaster,” Tony said, as Clint gave up and found Calcifer a sunflower seed bagel, “provides a useful service. Your eggs are just weird.”

"It's actually not that unusual," Natasha said. "It's the breaking of Lent. A lot of cultures, especially the French, refrain from sweetness for the time between Ash Wednesday and Easter. Lent is supposed to be a lean time, a time of self-denial." She smiled. "That's why Mardi Gras is such a huge celebration in French Louisiana. It's over indulgence before you go into the period of penance and self-reflection."

"And, ironically, Mardi Gras creates additional need for penance," Clint said. 

“Only if you do it right,” she agreed.

"It's a self-perpetuating cycle," Coulson said, and Steve chuckled.

"Well, if you have to go to confession," Nat said, "you might as well have something worth confessing?"

Clint raised his coffee cup in a salute. "Amen."

Tony stared at nothing in particular. "Why the hell am I awake this early?"

"Because you are a team player," Bruce said, without looking up from his tablet. He reached out with one hand, without looking, and nearly knocked over his orange juice. He fumbled for the glass, and got it to his mouth. "Also, threats and begging."

"Mostly threats," Clint said with a grin. 

"Mostly team player," Steve corrected, trying to hide his smile.

"That does not sound like me at all." Tony stared, glassy-eyed, at the ceiling. "Are you sure you've got the right guy?"

"I'm confident that we do." Coulson scooped a cooked egg into a shallow bowl, and drizzled a generous measure of the bubbling syrup on top of it. He handed the bowls to Steve as he filled them. "I cannot imagine that there are two men in this city with hair like that."

Tony's mouth opened, then closed. He slumped over his coffee cup. "People spend a lot of money to end up with hair that looks like this."

"You apparently gain the same effect by sleeping on it," Steve said, putting a bowl in front of him and handing one to Bruce.

"Or not sleeping, as the case may be," Bruce added. He murmured a thank you and reached for a spoon as everyone wandered over to the table, taking seats and pouring coffee and tea with more noise than was strictly necessary. Tony winced at every sound, no matter how soft, and steadfastly ignored the bowl that was steaming in front of him.

Coulson chuckled. "Or hung over," he added. He leaned against the counter, waiting for the temperature to stabilize before he added the next batch of eggs. 

"I am not hung over," Tony said, going for dignity. "I just don't want candied eggs. I don't- This is normal. This is a perfectly normal response to seeing eggs boiled in sugar."

Clint reached for his bowl. "I'll take yours, then." He grinned around the stem of his spoon, clamped firmly between his teeth.

Tony fended him off with a flick of his wrist. "Get away. I don't- Get away."

"Well, if you're not going to eat it..."

Tony hunched over his bowl, his arms wrapped around it in a manner that could only be called protective. "I might," Tony grumbled, and Steve hid his smile behind his coffee cup.

"Eat your egg," Steve said, draining the last of his coffee. "Or we have hard boiled? Would you prefer a hard boiled egg?"

"No," Tony said. He slumped lower. “I never want to see another egg again.” His lips forming a distinct pout, he went back to his coffee, ignoring his egg. “We have people for this, right? I mean, just because we're the figureheads at this nightmare does not mean we had to decorate each egg personally.”

“We made a few dozen,” Coulson said. “SHIELD had hundreds more made. But the personal touch was nice, honestly.” He took the last of the eggs out of the syrup and removed the pot from the heat. “Not that you really contributed. I'm not sure if using the fabrication units to decorate Easter eggs was entirely the intent of the exercise.”

“Hey, they apply paint every day. They're good at it,” Tony pointed out. “I... Don't poke things with paintbrushes.”

"We have ones that are painted like you," Natasha said. She gave Tony a wide eyed look of innocence. "Like your little helmeted head. I painted them. One quick tap with your spoon and you can shatter your little eggy armor."

Tony looked at her. "You are a sadist," he said.

"That sounds delicious," she said, standing. "I'm going to get one."

Tony stared after her as she headed for the fridge. “Why am I awake pre-dawn?” he asked.

“Did you ever actually go to bed last night?” Steve asked him. He knew what the answer was, but he liked making Tony admit it.

“Yes,” Tony said.

“How long ago?”

“Let's not split hairs here, I went to bed, you had to wake me up, and why am I awake?”

“Because we have-” Bruce checked his watch. “Just over an hour before the first Avengers Easter Egg Hunt and Earth Day Celebration begins.” He looked up, a very boyish smile on his face. “The science department has created some amazing interactive exhibits, it's going to be great.”

“Did they get that water cycle feature finished?” Clint asked Coulson.

“Installed last night.” Phil shook his head. “Luckily, it looks like it's shaping up to be a perfect day, weatherwise, so we can actually use it.”

“We also finished the pieces on alternative energy solutions, air pollution, and recycling standards and practices, among others. We've also got organizations coming in, a couple dozen of them, for bike repair and trade, container and community gardening, neighborhood clean ups, reclamation of public space, all sorts of things.” Bruce dug into his oatmeal, almost bouncing in his chair. “Between a couple of government and community organizations, we're covering a massive part of the park, and we've got an alternate 'nature hunt' for the kids who don't celebrate Easter.”

Tony stared at him. “How much of this am I financing?” Bruce held up one hand, his thumb and forefinger an inch or so apart. His expression was apologetic. “You are a liar,” Tony said, but he was smiling as he went back to his coffee. “Pepper is trying to bankrupt me.”

“Pepper is saving your public reputation,” Steve told him. “You're lucky if that doesn't bankrupt you.”

“Eh, it's for a good cause,” Tony said, grinning. He studied his empty cup. “Do we have more coffee?”

“It's in the pot,” Natasha said, returning to the table, a delicate egg cup in her hand. “That is usually where we keep our coffee, Stark.”

Tony made a sad noise, his head rolling in that direction, and Steve took pity on him. He stood. “I'll get it.”

Nat gave him a sideways look from under her lashes. “You are an easy mark, Rogers.”

Steve held up his cup. “Hey, I need more, too.” He filled his mug and then returned to the kitchen table where everyone was staring at Natasha's hard boiled egg.

It really was a very good likeness.

Natasha turned her egg cup between her fingers, her spoon tapping delicately against the shell as she rotated it. She cracked it all the way around, one perfect, uninterrupted line, then slid the tip of her spoon under the edge of the crack. With a flick of her fingers, she sent the top of the eggshell flying across the table.

It hit and rolled, perfect red and yellow paint looking eerily like Tony's helmet as it settled on the tabletop.

"Brutal, Tash," Clint said, grinning. "How do you even DO that?"

She sank the tip of her spoon into the egg with a wicked smile. "Practice."

Tony stared at her, his face caught somewhere between outrage and terror. His eyes narrowing, he turned to Coulson. "I would like to report harassment here. I am feeling harassed. Threatened, and harassed."

“I can see that,” Coulson said. He took a bite of his egg and reached for a piece of toast. “I'll get you the appropriate forms.”

“I have my own forms,” Natasha said, her eyelashes fluttering. She curled the spoon through the egg and brought it to her lips with a wicked sort of smile. “They're very comprehensive.”

Tony looked at Coulson, who nodded. “The HR department likes to keep her complaints seperate from the rest of them.”

Tony's eyes narrowed. “I still cannot tell when you are lying.”

“It's safer to assume that I am never lying,” Phil told him. His phone beeped. “That's our fifteen minute warning. Suit up.”

The door to the kitchen swung open, and Thor strode in, booted feet ringing on the tile floor and his cape swirling in his wake. He leveled a glare at the room. “I have been about since before the sun rising, hiding many a painted egg for our young friends to discover,” he said, his tone deeply disapproving. “And yet you remain here, unprepared.”

“I'm good,” Bruce said, already on his feet. He juggled a piece of toast and his tablet, chugging the rest of his juice in a quick swallow. “Did the customs officals show up with the invasive species information?”

“Yes. I have learned much about your Emerald Ash Borer Beetle,” Thor said. His scowl was fierce. “A great problem.”

“It is,” Bruce agreed. He jammed his toast in his mouth, dropped his glass in the dishwasher and hustled for the door. “I'm ready,” he mumbled around the toast.

“Very well. We will prepare the way for our shield brothers, since no urgency is met within them this day.”

“What's the carbon footprint on this thing?” Tony asked, his chin braced on one hand.

“Amazingly small.” Phil stood. “Bruce is very enthusiastic about this.”

“I'm not singing any sort of Earth Day carols,” Tony said.

“That's what you think,” Clint said, grinning. 

“Not happening.”

“I've got a pair of bunny ears,” Steve said. Tony looked at him.”You know. On a head band. Fake pair of ears?” He held his fingers up like bunny ears above his head.

Tony considered that. Stood. “That,” he said, taking a deep breath, “is a reason to go to this thing.” He stalked out of the room.

Clint looked at Steve. “Do you really?”

“Nah, but I figure we can find a drug store somewhere around that's got a pair, right?” Steve said, grinning. He went back to his egg. It really was good. “It's all in how you motivate the troops, Hawkeye.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Maple poached eggs are actually a thing. My maternal grand parents were French Canadian and Swedish by way of Canada. They were Catholics, and yes, we were on a strictly minimum sugar diet during Lent all during my childhood. No candy, no cookies, no sugared cereals, few treats. This was always broken on Easter morning with maple syrup poached eggs and hot cross buns.
> 
> http://kitchenvignettes.blogspot.com/2013/06/eggs-poached-in-maple-syrup.html
> 
> This recipe comes closest to what I remember of those mornings, but sadly, that entire side of the family has passed, so I have no one to ask for more details. 8)


	5. March: St. Patricks's Day

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's June, so have... March! Fine, fine, I'm running behind and out of order, but you know what? It HAPPENS. 8)
> 
> When the story is over, I'll rearrange the chapters to put them in order. Sorry, all! I'm doing my best to get things done, I'm just a little bit of a mess right now. 8)
> 
> Slight warnings for Drinking to the point of not remembering what has happened while drunk. Everyone is fine, no one gets hurt (other than Clint's hair) but they have made poor choices in drinking.
> 
> Drink responsibly!

Tony really hated hangovers.

He knew, even before he opened his eyes, even before he was fully conscious enough to consider opening his eyes, that this was going to hurt. He knew that, even as the bone rattling buzz in the back of his skull solidified into the sound of his phone rattling around on 'super pissy vibrate,' a level it only reached if Tony had been ignoring it for a while.

“Jarvis, kill that thing,” he said, or he tried to say that. He was pretty sure what came out of his mouth was a garbled mess, and anyway, it turns out that his mouth was full of pillow, so that wasn't going to work anyway. He fumbled out with one hand, striking blindly with numb fingers until the horrific noise went away.

Pleased, Tony curled up, dragging the blankets over his head, and waited for his brain to put him out of his misery. The bed shifted, and Tony considered moving in that direction. It couldn't have been that bad of a night if Steve was in bed with him, a solid and warm lump against Tony's back.

The barely muted sound of his phone made him pry one eye open. He considered throwing the technological irritant against the wall. Instead, he reached out from under the covers, fumbling around like an idiot until he managed to get his fingers around the damn thing. He poked at it with a blank desperation, his eyes squeezed shut, until it did its job.

“Hey,” he said, and he sounded like he'd swallowed something extremely unpleasant. He tried to swallow, and no, that was not happening. He wondered if it would be in bad taste to wipe his tongue on the pillowcase. His mouth tasted horrible.

“Hi.” Steve's voice was warm and soft. Gentle, even. Tony smiled into his pillow, the ache in his head fading just a little. “Where are you?”

Tony's eyes snapped open. For a terrifying, heart-stopping moment, he was very, very aware of the weight of the arm thrown over his waist. He threw the covers back and twisted around, his vision too blurry to make out much of anything for a few seconds. He blinked hard, desperation churning in his gut as he realized that yes, the head on the pillow next to his was not Steve's.

Clint was in possibly the most awkward sleeping position that Tony had ever seen, flat on his stomach, one arm over his head and the other flopped over Tony's waist. His head was twisted to the side, his face crushed into his pillow, his mouth gaping open. He was drooling onto the white linens. He was half in and half out of the covers, one leg hanging off of the bed.

He was fully dressed except he appeared to be missing a shirt sleeve, and his hair was bright green.

“Okay,” Tony said, fumbling at the sheets. “Okay. Bad news, I'm in bed with Barton. Good news-” He lifted the blanket with one hand, and felt his heart start beating again. “We're both fully dressed.”

There was a moment of silence. “Why,” Steve said, and there was banked laughter in his voice, “are you in bed with Clint?”

“I don't know! I don't-” Tony flopped back onto the pillows, ignoring the sour taste in the back of his throat. “Why aren't you jealous?”

“Should I be?”

“I would appreciate a little more, I don't know, concern here,” Tony groused and he could not understand the words that were coming out of his mouth. He had somehow dodged a bullet here and yet here he was, trying to throw himself into the path of it like a suicidal moron. 

“First of all,” Steve said, still the soul of patience, “you're not going to cheat on me. Second of all, if you were going to cheat on me, it would not be with Clint.”

Tony considered that. He couldn't really see any flaws to that logic. “I have better taste than that,” he agreed.

“Also, Phil would kill you. There's really not much holding him back from killing you on a good day, I think we all know that, Tony.”

Tony winced. “Also, that.” Also, very much that. He shoved Clint's arm away from him, just in case. Phil had the ability to find out about things.

Clint groaned and tried to roll over and went right off the edge of the bed, disappearing with a strangled curse and a flurry of white sheets. There was a beat if silence, then a low, pained, “Fuuuuuuck.”

“Pretty much,” Tony said to him. “Why is your hair green?”

Clint popped back over the edge of the bed, his eyes wild beneath the shock of green spikes that made up his hair. “Why is my hair WHAT?”

Tony decided that was not a discussion he needed to be involved in. “Never mind.”

“Tony?” Steve asked, bringing Tony's attention back to his phone. “Where are you?”

Tony's eyes squeezed shut as he tried desperately to figure that out. “I have absolutely no idea,” he admitted at last. “I got-” He shook his head. “I got nothing, Cap.”

“Let's work on figuring that out. Ask Clint if he knows.”

“Clint, where the fuck are we?” Tony asked.

“Why were we in bed together?” Clint asked, his voice plaintive. 

“Focus, Barton.” To Steve, he said, “He's gotta reboot. But honestly Cap, how far away can we be?”

“Well,” Steve said, “you left about thirty-six hours ago, in the Quinjet.”

“So what you're saying is we could be anywhere,” Tony said.

“Pretty much.”

Tony considered that. “Fuck.”

“Is there a window?” Steve asked, because he was a practical man who was rapidly getting used to the stupid things that Tony pulled.

Tony glared at the closed curtains. He had a feeling there was sun beyond the heavy panels. He was also pretty sure that would kill him. “Yeah. Let's... Leave that for a last resort.” He scraped a hand through his hair, and his fingers came back covered in glitter. “Didn't I tell you where I was going?”

“You really don't remember this?”

“I really don't, so please take pity on me and just... Throw me a bone here, Cap.”

“Maybe you should have a cup of coffee.”

“Maybe you should just help me out here.”

Steve was laughing and trying his best to cover it. “You said that New York's attempt at a St. Patrick's Day celebration was, and I quote, 'a complete embarrassment,' and you knew a place where they knew how to do the holiday right.”

Tony stopped. “I went to Boston for St. Patrick's day? Why... Would I take Clint to BOSTON on St. Patrick's Day? He drinks like a fish on days that aren't intended for binge drinking, in cities that don't consider shots a god given right right.”

“Hey,” Clint said. He stood up. It didn't take, and he tumbled back out of sight, hitting the ground with another loud thump. “Really? You do not get to talk about anyone else's drinking habits, Stark.”

“My hair isn't green,” Tony pointed out.

“Neither is mine,” Clint said, pushing himself up over the edge of the bed again. Tony stared at him, and he reached up. “Is it?” Tony spread his hands wide, giving him a look. Clint made a pained sound and stumbled towards the door, and what Tony assumed was the bathroom.

“Why did I take you?” he called after Clint. “Why would I do this? What was I thinking?”

“You took the whole team, other than me,” Steve said, drawing Tony's attention back to the phone. “Well and Coulson.”

Tony raised the sheets. “No one else is in this bed.” It was a relief, really, he didn't need that kind of an awkward morning after, Clint was bad enough.

“I imagine it would get kinda crowded in there if there was,” Steve said.

“Why didn't I take you?” Tony asked, as a low, pained sound came from the bathroom. “It's not that bad,” he called to Clint. “Kinda mossy, natural looking. You make it work.”

“We had a SHIELD meeting yesterday,” Steve said. “I thought, considering that you were taking the whole team, that I didn't have anything to be worried about.”

“The whole team?” Tony asked. “Really? Are you sure?”

“As well as Jane and Darcy.”

Tony's eyes narrowed. “Darcy,” he said, his voice low and full of venom. 

“Yeah?” A shadowy lump of what he had thought was a pile of clothing on the couch raised a languid hand.

He choked on something that might've been a very undignified squawk, but he managed to hold it back. “This is your fault,” he said. “I'm not sure how. But I'm pretty sure this is your fault, Lewis.”

Darcy sat up, pushing aside a pile of jackets and something that looked like a damn royal cape, the red velvet kind with white fur trim. She blinked at him, her face flushed with sleep. “You know, I should resent that, but... Meh. Where are we?” she asked.

“Why is my hair green?” Clint asked from the door of the bathroom. 

“It works on you,” Darcy said. “Kind of an elf, dryad thing going on.” Clint stared at her, and she grinned. “You're a hot mythological creature, it's fine.”

“Fantastic,” Clint said. “There has to be a coffee pot in here. It's a hotel room. There's gotta be a coffee pot, right? That's something that they give us.”

“I'm going to have to call you back,” Tony said to Steve.

“Tony...”

“We're fine, really, I'll call you back,” Tony said. “After, you know, coffee or something.”

“Let me know what you figure out,” Steve said.

“There's a girl in the bathtub,” Clint said, wandering out of the bathroom. His head was wet. Still green. Now just wet and green. “Just so you know.”

Darcy said, getting to her feet. She looked like a newborn colt, all wobbly, knock-kneed legs and lack of balance. She was wearing what appeared to be a man's dress shirt over an leather mini-skirt, and a pair of bright green socks. “Is it Jane?”

Clint gave her a look. “If it was Jane, I would've said, JANE is in the bathtub. Why would I-”

Darcy punched him in the shoulder as she wobbled past. “Is she hot?” 

“She's asleep in our bathtub, I'm just glad that she's snoring loud enough that I don't have to check her for a pulse.”

Darcy leaned into the bathroom. Then she wandered back, pausing only long enough to punch Clint in the shoulder again. “You dick. That's my roommate,”

“You don't have a roommate,” Clint said.

“Well, not NOW,” Darcy said. “I had a life before you, Barton. I had a life before I made the massive mistake of signing up as Dr. Foster's Internship. I had a roommate.”

“So you had a roommate years ago,” Tony said. “Why is she in our bathtub?”

Darcy's face scrunched up tight, her lips pinched into a pout. “I have no fucking idea.” She looked around. “Where ARE we?”

“Chicago,” a voice said from inside the bathroom.

“Thank you,” Clint said, at the same time Tony said, “Why the FUCK are we in Chicago?”

A pretty girl appeared in the doorway, wearing battered jeans and a t-shirt that proclaimed 'Not Irish, Who Cares?' “Because when you showed up in Savannah, I made a passing mention of needing to get a plane ticket home, and you stood up in the middle of a party that spanned most of the city, grabbed me by the shoulders, and yelled, 'I HAVE A JET.'”

Clint pointed. “That's the girl who was in the bathtub.”

“That's Mary,” Darcy said, “and that does seem like something you'd do, Stark.”

“I do have a jet,” Tony said. He gave a shrug. “I'm proud of that fact, I think that's understandable.” He squinted at the new girl. “Hello person once stupid enough to live with Darcy.”

“Hey, you're currently stupid enough to live with Darcy,” Darcy said.

“It's more like I'm smart enough to know that pissing off Thor is a bad idea.”

“Where is Thor?” Clint asked.

The girl was very tall, and very slim, a lanky tangle of gracefully curved limbs as she leaned against the doorframe. One hand slipped through her hair, disordering the tight black curls. “You lost them in Savannah,” she said, a faint smile hovering around her wide mouth. “Jane was tired, and it's a romantic sort of city. They got a hotel room after Thor discovered Vinnie Van Go-Go's.”

“How unfortunate,” Tony deadpanned, rubbing his forehead. “What, exactly-”

“Oh!” Darcy clapped her hands together. “Yeah! Probably best they got off the streets after that mess with the fountains.”

“What mess with the fountains?” Tony asked.

“Savannah dyes the water in the fountains green for St. Patrick's Day, which you would think would encourage people not to, you know, get into them. Didn't work so well,” Darcy said. 

“They dye the water?”

“That's how I convinced you to fly to Savannah.”

“That's a stupid reason to fly the length of the East coast,” Tony said.

“You were amazingly wasted,” Darcy said. “I could've offered you a particularly charming cat and you would've flown down the length of the East coast. I wanted to get to Savannah, didn't much care if you tagged along. ” She grinned at Mary. “How was your first St. Patrick's Day with Stark footing the bills?”

“Just discovered I have a new tattoo,” Mary said, and she didn't seem concerned about that. “Wanna see, Darce?”

“Fuck, yeah.”

As Darcy bounced towards her and the bathroom, the girl waved a languid hand in Clint and Tony's direction. “Hey,” she said, giving them a grin that showed off a charming little gap in the front of her teeth. “How you guys feeling?”

“Undercaffeinated,” Tony told her. “Is there a coffee pot?”

“You ordered room service for noon,” she said. Darcy dragged her into the bathroom and shut the door with a bang that made both men wince.

“I am the best,” Tony said.

“It's one pm,” Clint pointed out.

“Well, fuck.” Tony pointed at him. “Reschedule.”

“Why should I-”

“Because I'm footing the bills.”

“Point.” Clint wandered over to the phone. “What happened to my hair?”

“I'm more concerned about what happened to the rest of the team,” Tony said. He really wasn't, on a personal level, they were all adults, Barton was the one most likely to result in an international incident, and he was here. “We're really close to the Canadian border, though,” he said out loud.

“Yeah, you made your pilot violate their airspace so we could all moon Ontario.”

“That seems uncalled for,” Tony said. “Also something I'd do.” He grabbed his phone. “Okay, Steve and Phil are still in New York, we lost Jane and her big blond snugglebunny in Savannah, may God have mercy on that city, I hope they invest in earplugs soon, and you and the accursed one made it to Chicago, along with a new friend-”

“Talking to room service now,” Clint said.

“No, you're not, you're trying to remember how to work a push button phone,” Tony said, without even glancing in his direction. “So that just leaves Bruce and Nat.” He stared down at his phone. “I think you should-”

“Not it.”

“What are you, twelve?” Tony asked him. “Just call Natasha.”

“Not. It.” 

“Coward,” Tony said, and Clint flipped him off, even as he rattled off an order to the front desk that would probably bankrupt Tony. Tony shrugged it off as he flipped through his contacts, room service was room service, who cared if he was about to pay twelve dollars for a piece of toast and a tiny jar of jam?

He could probably afford it.

“Hello?”

“Oh, thank God, you're alive,” Tony said. “Where are you?”

“Boston,” Bruce said, sounding amused. “Where are you?”

“Apparently, Chicago.”

“What happened to Savannah?”

“It's been ceded to Thor,” Tony said. “Why are you still in Boston?”

“You don't remember, do you?”

“Not a thing.”

Bruce sighed. “You introduced me to-”

“To Professor Yates! Yes!” Tony threw himself onto the bed. “That's right. MIT. Biomechanical advances in-” He stopped. “Did you spend all of St. Partick's Day at MIT with a professor who's probably ninety?”

“I had a great time,” Bruce said and he sounded like he meant it, that was the scary thing.

“Wonderful,” Tony said, trying to sound like he meant it. “Do you have any idea where Natasha is?”

“Last I heard, she had formed an army of drunken MIT fratboys and was determined to use them to her advantage,” Bruce said.

“Is the city on fire?”

“Not this part.”

“The MIT part?”

“Sorry, that's all I've got,” Bruce admitted. 

“Okay, great. Hang tight, we're going to check on things and then we'll be swinging back through to pick you up. Can you keep yourself occupied for a few more hours?”

“There's a faculty tea this afternoon.”

“You're in your element, aren't you?”

“How's your hangover?”

“Point to you.” Tony grinned. “Hang tight. Don't insult anyone's data.”

“I'll keep that in mind.” 

Tony hung up and redialed. “We're in Chicago,” Tony said.

“That's unfortunate for Chicago,” Steve said. “Are you planning on coming home at any point?”

“We may have misplaced some people along the way,” Tony admitted. “We gotta, you know, see if we can find Natasha.”

“Natasha got home last night,” Steve said. “She brought a rather large, rather ugly wooden fish.”

Tony stopped. Cleared his throat. “Wooden... Fish?”

“Yes.”

“About... Five feet long?”

Steve paused. “Yes,” he said, drawing out the word. “Why do you-”

“Okay, I'm going to call Pepper, see if we can't lawyer up because the State House is closed for Evacuation Day, but they're gonna be back in session today and someone's gonna notice that's missing.” Tony stood up. “Grab the coffee and Lewis,” he said to Clint, “and let's see if we can't make it back to the Tower before the Massachusetts State Police arrive.”

“Why do all of our road trips end with you saying that?” Clint asked.

“Alcohol probably has something to do with it.”


	6. May: Mother's Day

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I do not acknowledge any fridging of any characters. My capacity for delusion is amazing, isn't it? But my world is a happy one, c'mon in, it's great to have a rich supporting cast who don't die to further the plot of the male main characters! 
> 
> Also surviving mothers. Those are nice, too. 8)

She heard the footsteps behind her, and smiled. 

“Hello, Thor.”

The steps paused. "How did you know it was me?"

Frigga laughed. "You have your father's walk, but more weight to the ring of your boot heels." She looked up from her work, smiling at her eldest son. "And none of his bluster upon entering a room."

He continued walking, taking only a few more steps to come up next to her. His hands were tucked behind his back, and Frigga's eyes narrowed. “I am not sure I like this comparison, Mother.”

"And I like not that smile of yours. What mischief have you been up to?" She reached up, and it was a long way up, to cup her fingers against the angle of her older son's cheek. He grinned down at her, his eyes dancing.

"You wound me, mother. What have I done to cause you to treat me with such mistrust?" Thor asked, leaning his cheek against her fingers. 

"Shall I make for you a list?" she asked, her chin up, her eyes narrowed, despite the way her lips twitched with repressed amusement. "Or skip your long and well-troubled childhood and go straight to the fact that you have removed yourself from my presence and seek to avoid me at all turns?"

"Should I have stayed with you for the whole of my life?" Thor asked, his teeth flashing in a grin. "Safe in the childhood bedroom just down the halls from yours?"

"Yes," Frigga said, prompt and stern, making him laugh. "Oh, you think me clever in my response?" She crossed to the delicate chaise before the open windows, where the light and air were best, and sank down, patting the space beside her.

"I think you clever always," Thor said, taking a seat next to her. The air held a sweetness that made her smile. "But never more so than when you seek to make me regret my choices. In that, you are exceedingly clever."

"What weapon do I have against one such as you, other than the sharp blade of my tongue?"

He gave her a look. "What weapon? Quite a few. Your skill with a sword outstrips mine, as we are all aware."

Frigga waved him off. "And you compare your weakest weapon to my strongest." The breeze from the open window stirred his hair, and she watched, seeing the echo of his father in him, as he reached up and pushed it back. He had good hands, strong and broad. They had always been good hands, but now, there was an element of care, of caution, to how he used them that had not been there before. 

Midgard, it would appear, had been the making of one of her sons, and the ruin of another.

She reached up and caught a lock of pale hair that had escaped his fingers, tucking it behind the curve of his ear. "You had no patience for swordplay, nor the fleetness of foot necessary to enjoy it." She smiled. "You were always happier with a direct attack, and a hard one."

He laughed. "I have a long reach, and a short temper, it is true." 

“And little talent for subterfuge,” she said. “What are you trying to hide from me?”

“I try only to surprise you. Is that such a sin?” He turned on the padded bench, and there was another faint rustle of paper. When he turned back, he was cradling bundle of flowers, wrapped with care in a cone of pale, thin paper. “It is mother's day, where I now reside on Midgard. I thought perhaps you might be pleased to see me.” He held them out to her, and she noticed the bit of red ribbon tied around the bouquet. “Happy Mother's Day.”

“I thought you were smelling a bit sweeter than usual,” Frigga said, taking the flowers when he offered them to her. There were masses of them, beautiful cones of tiny purple, white and lavender blossoms on thick, woody stems. “They are lovely.”

“They're lilacs,” Thor said, reaching out to flick his fingers at one perfect, heart shaped green leaf. “A favorite of my lady Jane.”

Frigga buried her face in the masses of blooms, inhaling the sweet, heady scent. “She has wonderful taste. A fact which I already knew, given her affection for you.” 

Thor smiled. “They do not last long, I fear, but I thought you might enjoy their presence, however fleeting it may be.”

Frigga cradled the bundle in the crook of one arm, sweeping her skirts out before she stood. “Perhaps we can coax a few more days from them here,” she said. Pausing, she leaned over, her free hand tipping Thor's head up. “Thank you. It is most kind of you to bring them.” Her fingers light on his chin, she brushed a kiss against his forehead. 

“They are a small enough token, but I could think of nothing else with which to gift you,” Thor said.

“Your presence is gift enough. I miss you.”

He leaned forward, his elbows braced on his knees. For a moment, his head dipped, falling forward. She made her way across the room, leaving him to his thoughts as she fetched a pair of delicate silver sheers. It wasn't until she was arranging the branches within a deep vase that he spoke again. "Do you bear me a grudge for my choices?"

Her fingers stilled, one hand cradling a woody stem, the other laying the sheers against it. "No," she said, and then she went back to her task.

"Mother-"

"Do you doubt me?" She shook her head. "Your choices are your own. I miss you, I miss you terribly, and I do occasionally wish that you have not chosen the path you now undertake." She slipped the branch into the vase, and a tiny blossom fell to the pristine surface of the table. She picked it up, her fingers delicate.

Frigga turned back to Thor. "I am proud of you. Of the man you've become. Of the king you will be. I am so proud of you, and the choices you make, though they are not always ones I find easy, have made you into that man." Her skirts swirling around her ankles, she crossed back to Thor, leaning over to cup his face between her hands. She tipped his face up, forcing him to meet her eyes. "I do wish you would visit more often, my son, but that is a dirge sung by mothers since the beginning of recorded time."

He smiled. "And likely before."

"Very likely," she agreed. She let her fingers slide free, taking a step back, and he reached up, catching her hand in his. "I do miss you."

Thor leaned forward, pressing his forehead against the curve of her knuckles. "And I you."

She savored the warmth of those hands for a moment, savored the rare moment of stillness, of calm. "So, this Midgarian tradition," she said. "Includes the bearing of gifts?"

“So I am told,” he said. He took a deep breath, his shoulders rising with it. “Jane thought it best that I observe this tradition.”

“Ah, so it is to her that I owe your visit,” Frigga said, chuckling. “You must bring her next time, so that I might thank her personally.”

Thor glanced at the window, at the landscape of Asgard beyond the castle walls. “She is still not at ease here.”

“That, I expect, will take time. She has found joy in our presence within her life, but also pain. You cannot blame her for her wariness.” Frigga returned to the vase, and carried it back to the window. She set it on the sill, where the soft breeze could rattle the tiny bells of the lilac's blossoms and carry their scent throughout the room. “Our people, too, need time to come to terms with her. All we can do is be patient.”

Thor was silent. He reached out, fingers idly trailing over the leaves, pulling one dark green heart free. “She fears we will side with Loki, if it comes to that.”

Frigga looked at him, surprise sweeping through her, almost enough to drown out the stab of pain that his voice now caused. “Is that what she has told you?”

“No. But I feel her fear when his name is spoken.” Thor's fingers closed on the leaf. “I see it in her face, in her eyes.” His head was down, his voice rough.

“Do you fear him?”

“I am angry with him.” His head came up, and his face was twisted, for a moment, twisted with something that looked closer to pain than hate. “Do you blame me for this?”

Frigga could see, for a moment, the echo of the child he had been in that expression. That child, bold and headstrong, fierce and occasionally cruel, was not so far in the past, not so long past regulated to memory. “No,” she said.

“How can you still love him, after all he has done?” Thor asked, his voice shattering on the words.

She glanced at the window, taking a deep breath. "I have two sons," she said, her voice soft. "One as fierce and bright, and constant as the sun. The other as quiet and mysterious as the moon." She folded her hands together in front of her. "And some would say that the moon does nothing but reflect the sun.

"But the sun can burn, if you disrespect it. It can law waste to one's whole world, it can destroy so easily. " Her lips twitched. "It is steady, and sure, and upon its light, we do depend." She looked at Thor. "But the moon is changeable, its face alters by the day, appearing and disappearing, sometimes a great light to lead us through the dark, and others... It will leave you, helpless, to your own devices. 

"But the moon calls the tides, it measures the passage of time, by the changing of its faces have we always measured the passing of seasons, of years." Her eyebrows arched. "And when they cross, for a moment, can the moon not extinguish the light of the sun?"

She leaned in, cupping Thor's cheek in her hand. “I love you, and I love your brother, and there is no contradiction to me in that. Does your affection for me require I abandon him?”

“No,” Thor said, shaking his head, and she caught his face between her palms, stilling him.

“Loki has made his choices, he has his sins to bear. But I do not see how taking what small hope he has will help him bear them, or help him redeem himself. I think you do not ask how I still love him, despite what he's done, but how you can still love him, after all the pain he has caused you. And that I cannot answer for you. Only you can.” She straightened up, her hands falling away from him. "It is Mother's day, is it not?" 

His eyes narrowed, clearly sensing a trap. "'Tis."

"Then I should think there is a boon owed me." She turned away, brushing her skirts straight with a flick of her fingers. "Go and see your brother. It will do both of you well. Either you will come to some accord, or come to blows, and I find I care not which.”

Thor smiled, even though it seemed to pain him. "I was under the impression that he was forbidden visitors. By order of Odin himself."

She waved away the objection. "And none would think to stand in your way, should you undertake the journey. You are all but their liege, and they know you remain true to the rule of the All-Father."

He was silent for a moment. "Do they stop you?"

She laughed, a faint little exhale. "Who would dare?'

"Father."

She shook her head, humor dying. "Your father is my king, and I respect his rulings. But he is also my husband, and he does not rule me.” She turned her head in his direction, slow and deliberate. “There is no force in this realm or the next that will keep me from my children, Thor. Either of them.”

He stood. “In all the places I have been, in all the worlds I have visited, I have never met one more regal than you.” His bow was low and graceful. “I am proud to call you my queen, and honored, always, to be your son.”

Frigga pointed at the door. “Flattery will not distract me. Go.”

“As my queen commands.”

*

Loki did not look up from his book as Thor's footsteps approach. “All hail, the conquering hero,” he said. “Could it be? Is this the next king of Asgard? Here, in this base place, in the company of such a wretched villain?”

The words stung. As did the first look he'd had at his brother since returning him to Asgard's keeping. Loki seemed to seethe in the silence, his skin shallow, and dark circles smudging the space beneath his eyes. Those eyes were dark and bright with some unholy fire. Thor paused in front of the golden barrier that separated them, holding up the bottle of mead he'd collected on his way down to the dungeons. “Will you have a drink with me, brother?”

“I fear I have another engagement.” His movements careful and considered, Loki turned the page, his fingers flicking against the paper. “You ought to have considered how full my schedule is before assuming I could make time for you.”

Thor resisted the urge to throw the bottle down and stalk out. Not so long ago, he would have done it. Not so long ago, he would not have realized that this was exactly what Loki wanted. Control. Control and manipulation. “Always so clever,” he said, instead. “You sound like our mother, when you lay me low, with but a quick turn of phrase.” He stepped forward, another step, as close as he could get. “It is at her request I come.”

“And it is at Odin's behest that I send you away.” Loki flipped a hand in his direction. “I am to have no visitors, not solace in my suffering. You may tell Frigga that you attempted, that you were ever the golden gilded son, and I was ever the villain.”

“Will we then wait for some tragedy?” Thor asked, wishing for anger and finding there was none left beneath his breast. Only a strange sort of grief, a sorrow that lingered beyond when it should have left him. “Some loss, when we are beyond the point of forgiveness?”

“Have I not crossed that point already?” Loki smirked at him. “You have not been so eager to share my company these last long months.”

“I had other duties to undertake,” Thor pointed out.

“Playing hero for your precious Earth?”

Thor's fingers tightened on the neck of the bottle. It took effort to relax his grip “Stopping those who would follow your example.”

“Always the dutiful warrior.”

“And the dutiful son.” Thor held up the bottle. “It is our mother's wish that we share a drink. Will you abandon her, too?”

Loki's face twisted, rage sweeping over his face. “She has abandoned me!” 

Thor stood, silent and still, as Loki pulled himself back, clawing for his control, for his distance. Only after Loki's expression had smoothed out to its usual mocking mask did Thor say, “Then why is there a lilac there on your table?”

Loki didn't look at it. “A punishment, I assume. A reminder of my supposed crimes.”

“She loves you still.” Thor paused. “Why do you hate her for it?”

“Why do you?” Loki asked, his head tipping to the side.

Thor's mouth opened. “I do not. I do not hate her. Or you.” He sank to the stone step, one leg in front of him, the other propped up, his arm braced on his knee. “You are my brother. I love you still.”

“Then you are a fool.”

Thor realized he was smiling. He wrenched the cork from the bottle. “Then pleased I will be, to die as such a fool.” He held up the bottle. “To our mother. Whether you claim her or not, it seems she claims you, Loki. Of Asgard.” He tipped the bottle up, taking a long drink, his eyes falling shut.

“You are an oaf,” Loki said, suddenly on the other side of the wall. “Fine. Give it here.”

Thor tipped his head in Loki's direction. “Open the gate? Fool I may be, but not so great a fool as that.”

Loki shrugged. “Worth a try.”

“I would expect nothing less.” Thor slapped the ground. “Deny her if you must, but you will drink in her honor. Just once. On this day. Come, my brother.”

Loki slid to the ground. “I am no brother of yours.” 

“Then drink to our inevitable battle.” Thor kept his eyes forward, imagining that he could feel the warmth, the weight of Loki's shoulder against his, through the barrier. It was a trick of his mind, but he found he preferred the illusion. He smiled. Loki was right. He always fell for it.

“Is it inevitable?”

Thor looked in Loki's direction. “That, one must suppose, is up to you.” Loki said nothing, and he went back to his mead. “To Frigga, the All-Mother. To our mother.”

Loki was silent, but he raised his hand, a cup appearing in his fingers. And they both drank. Thor closed his eyes, and imagined that he could still smell the lilacs.


	7. July: Independence Day (Steve Roger's Birthday)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, yes, I skipped June, Father's Day was a pain in the goddamn ass.
> 
> Have July for now. 8)
> 
> I know there are theories that the 'July 4, 1918' birthday that is listed for Steve is propaganda made up after the fact, but that is the DOB listed on my Avengers Phase One files, so I am taking advantage of it. 8)
> 
> It's been years since I've been to Fenway, so I didn't do much with the park itself and I do not want to hear about how it's not right. Baseball is not really my sport. (Anyone up for some hockey? 8) )

"I'm not sure the shirt is completely necessary."

"Yeah, it kinda is, Cap."

Steve gave him a look. "How. How is it necessary?"

Tony tipped his head forward, glancing at Steve over the rim of his golden sunglasses. "Well," he said, his tone considering, "without the shirt, how would anyone know that it is, in fact, your birthday?"

Steve resisted the urge to cross his arms over his chest. It was a very difficult urge to resist. "That's the point, Tony, I'm not sure anyone needs to know it's my birthday." He glanced down at the shirt, wincing a bit. Even from this angle, it was pretty tasteless.

"Are you insulting my gift?" Tony asked. He sounded highly insulted. Steve glanced in his direction, weighing his response. Despite the tone of his voice and the aghast expression on his face, there was a Puckish twinkle to his eyes, and his lips weren't quite still, weren't quite able to maintain the illusion. Steve gave up.

"It's a pretty bad gift, Tony," he said, but he couldn't quite resist the smile that was twitching at the corners of his mouth.

"Cap! I'm hurt," Tony said, all the insult melting away in an instant, leaving on a smug smile in its wake. "It's like you don't think I even tried."

"You bought me a t-shirt that says, 'It's my birthday and I'm old,'" Steve said.

"I was gonna go with the hat. I thought that might be overkill, though." Tony toasted him with his martini glass. "It had an hourglass on it, like an actual sands through the hourglass kinda of hourglass." His eyebrows arched. "Overkill, right? Seemed like overkill."

"Wow, you're actually wearing that," Clint said, ducking through the door. He was in battered jeans and battered combat boots, the creases on both worn soft and white. His purple t-shirt was in better shape; it was faded and snug but it was at least intact. He had a weapons case thrown over his shoulder. Natasha was right behind him, a vision in a sleek pair of jeans and a trim fitting bright red t-shirt that had a silky sheen and that probably cost a terrifying amount of money.

"You don't have to wear that," Natasha told Steve, her sharp little heels soundless on the floor of the plane. Her bag was a little bit more conventional for the civilian life, but Steve was pretty sure it held just as deadly a cargo as Clint's did. "Really, Cap."

"Yes, he does," Tony said, going for hurt again now that he had a new audience. "It was a gift. He's polite. Unlike you."

"He still thinks you have feelings," Natasha corrected, making Tony laugh. She took a seat in one of the plush chairs. "On loan from Pepper?"

"It's still my damn jet, I just let Pepper use it," Tony said. “And I thought that based on this most important occasion, we could go in style.” He leaned back and saluted them with a tumbler full of scotch and ice. “Style and designated fliers.”

“So you asked Pepper if you could borrow the jet,” Natasha reiterated.

“It's my damn jet!”

“Keep telling yourself that, Stark,” Clint said, poking at the panel of buttons. “Wow. This thing has more controls-”

“Don't touch anything,” Tony told him, which only served to make Clint poke at buttons with both hands. “Seriously?” Tony asked. “Are you twelve?”

“You overestimate him,” Natasha said.

“Sorry, I'm late, I was just-” Bruce ducked on board, Thor and Darcy right on his heels. Thor was stretching the limits of his New York Jets t-shirt to its absolute limits, and Bruce was wearing the ugliest, most battered baseball hat Steve had ever seen, but he was grinning. Darcy was in a bright pink Red Sox t-shirt and all but bouncing up and down.

“Baseball,” she said, throwing herself into a chair next to Natasha. “This is going to be awesome! Thanks for inviting me!”

“Jane sends her regrets,” Thor said, his eyes dancing. “She has a work engagement, that cannot be broken.”

“Also she hates baseball,” Darcy said. “What do all the buttons do?”

“Massage your ass if you find the right one,” Clint said. “Here, press-”

“Stop touching things,” Tony said, throwing his hands up. Steve ducked to avoid being clocked in the face by a crystal glass of scotch. “It's like the limo all over again.”

Natasha smiled up at Thor as he found a seat. “Wrong sport, Thor,” she said. When he just looked at her, puzzled, she pointed at his shirt. “Wrong sport.”

He looked down. “Oh, yes. But it shares my love of the great city of New York!”

“He's big enough not to get lynched,” Bruce said, chuckling under his breath. 

“I give it until the ninth before some drunk takes a shot at him.” Clint pressed a button, and panels opened up in the floor, two poles extending upwards. There was a moment of silence, and Steve gave Tony a look. Tony sighed. 

“Eh, not my best choice,” he admitted.

“Oh, my God,” Natasha said, leaning her chin on one fist. “What is-”

“Never mind,” Tony said. “Stop poking at everything, Barton.”

“Hell. No,” Clint said, his face awed. “There are stripper poles. You have stripper poles. On your jet.”

“That is fucking fierce,” Darcy said. She stood. “Clint, dance off!”

He rolled to his feet. “Yes.”

“No,” Tony said.

“Yeeeeeeees,” Darcy said, grabbing the pole with both hands and swinging around it.

“I thought Pepper had those removed,” Rhodey said from the door of the jet. “Sorry I'm late.”

“We tried,” Tony said, with a shrug. “The hydraulics were so embedded in everything that-” He shrugged again, the gesture broad. “She just told me never to press that button again, because it wasn't worth ripping the whole plane apart. Which I would have, but she's used to me.”

“That she is,” Rhodey agreed. He held out a hand to Steve. “Thanks for the invite, Cap. I haven't been to a real game in forever.”

Steve shook his hand with a grin. “Me, neither. And I figured I wanted someone else along who actually liked the game.”

“Hey now!” Darcy said, her head hanging upside down, as she leaned back from the pole. “I love baseball!”

“She has taught me much of the game,” Thor said.

“Then I'm glad you could come,” Steve told her. 

“If you fall off of that pole, Barton, I will point and laugh and then kick you off my plane. No matter where we are in the flight plan,” Tony pointed out.

Clint swung around, his legs scissored around the pole. “Screw you, Stark, I know what I'm doing.”

“No one is surprised,” Bruce told him, making Clint laughed.

Rhodey raised his hand. “Me. I am surprised.”

Bruce rubbed a hand over his hair, balancing his ancient hat on his knee. “You need to hang out with us more.”

Rhodey pointed. “This? This right here is why I don't hang out with you more.” Clint made kissy noises at him, and Rhodey clapped a hand over his mouth to hide a grin.

Tony clapped his hands. “All right, then, happy birthday, Captain Rogers.”

Steve looked down at his shirt. “Apparently, I'm old.”

“You are.” Tony grinned. “It is the Fourth of July, and we are Boston bound!”

*

Yawkey Way was a mass of sights and smells, of people and hawkers selling food and t-shirts and giant foam hands. Tony had swept straight from the car through the doors leading to the Park offices, Bruce following quickly on his heels to avoid the crowds. The others, unnoticed and unrecognized for now, had slipped into the crowds.

Steve leaned against the brick wall of a building and just watched everyone and everything go by. Boston on Independance Day was a sight, and he found himself smiling despite himself. It wasn't home, not by a long shot, but the tight, pressed in nature of Fenway had a reassuring echo back to the old days of Ebbets field.

“Hello!”

Jolted out of his thoughts, Steve's head swung around. A little girl was standing next to him, hear hands behind her back, her black hair pulled back in two pigtails on either side of her face. The barrettes holding her hair back were tipped in white stars and bursts of curled blue and red ribbon. Steve smiled, and she smiled back, revealing two missing front teeth. “Hi there,” Steve said.

“Is it really your birthday?” she asked, her head tipped to the side.

“What?” Steve looked down at his shirt. “Oh. Yes. Yes, it is.”

Her smile got bigger. “It's mine, too!” she said.

Steve crouched down. “Happy birthday, miss,” he said.

She rocked on her feet. “Thanks!” She brought her hands around to her front, her hands cupped around a cupcake covered in purple frosting with red, white and blue sparkles. “Mom made us cupcakes, because it's my birthday, and we have extras, and she said I could offer you one, because it's your birthday, too,” she said, all in a rush, and Steve's eyebrows arched.

He looked up, and a short, round woman with a chin length bob gave him a little wave. He nodded at her. Turning his attention back to the girl, he held out a hand. “Thank you. That's really nice of you, miss.”

She handed him the cupcake. “It's lemon flavored, because that's my favorite,” she said. “Mom brought six of us for the game.” She was bouncing on the balls of her feet. “It's my first baseball game. In real life, I mean. I watch the Sox on tv all the time, but I saved up and mom saved up so that we could come to the game for my birthday.”

Steve nodded. “Do you like baseball?”

“I LOVE baseball,” she said. “Who's your favorite player?”

Steve thought about that, rubbing a hand over his chin. “Harold 'Pee-Wee' Reece,” he said at last.

She frowned. “Who does he play for?”

“The Brooklyn Dodgers,” Steve said.

“Brooklyn hasn't had a team since, like, forever,” she said.

“And that breaks my heart.” Steve folded his arms on his knees, careful not to get frosting all over himself. “Who's yours?” 

“Big Papi,” she said.

“Carina,” the woman called. The girl turned, making her pigtails and her ribbons bounce. The woman beckoned with one hand. “Come on. We need to go find our seats.”

“Okay!” she called back. “Mama? Can I get a hat?”

The woman winced, the faintest little twitch, but Steve could see it, the pinched expression of a woman who knew just how much things cost, and just how much she had in her pocket. His mother had worn it often enough. “We'll see,” she said, a faint smile on her face. “Wish him a happy birthday, and let's go, okay?”

The girl turned back to Steve. “Happy birthday! Feliz cumpleaños!

“Happy birthday,” Steve told her. “Enjoy your first baseball game.”

She ran back to her mother, who opened her arms for a hug. Steve found himself smiling as he watched them walk over to the nearest souvenir stand, a couple of other kids laughing and talking,shoving and horsing around. The girl was grinning, leaning into her mother's side.

“Cap?”

He turned around to find Clint and Nat there. Nat had pulled her hair into stubby little pigtails low on the back of her head and Clint was wearing what looked like a green fuzzy puppet on his head. Steve decided not to ask. “We all set?” Natasha asked him. “Tony's got the tickets squared away.”

“Let's go,” Tony said, leaning out of the door. “Don't take candy from strangers, Cap.”

Steve smiled down at the cupcake. “I think this one's safe.”

“Where is everyone? Why do you all need babysitters? Bruce is here, because not so much with crowds, but where is- I need to hire sitters.”

“That's rich, coming from you,” Rhodey said, wandering up with a sausage in one hand.

“Did you- Did you buy food? We have a package. The Ultimate Monster. There is a private seating on the Green Monster, we're getting a private tour, and then seats on the Green Monster, with food, and you paid how much for a lousy sausage off of a street cart?”

Rhodey took a deliberate bite. “Do not,” he said, his tone deadly serious, “insult the sausage. There is tradition here, Stark, that you would not understand. Baseball. Is sacred.”

Steve was staring after the little girl. He took a deep breath. “Hey, Rhodey,” Steve said, bringing the man's head around. Steve smiled at him. “I'm not really a 'luxury seat' sort of fella.”

Rhodey's eyebrows arched. “You know what?” he said, his mouth twitching upwards. “Neither am I, Steve, neither am I. What's the point of baseball if you don't have to hand someone else a hot dog and dodge popcorn being thrown by a ten year old?”

“Wanna see if that lady'll do a ticket swap?” Steve asked. “We can grab ourselves a bleacher seat.”

“You're kidding me, right?” Tony asked, his voice flat. “Really. You're kidding me right now. You expect me to let a bunch of kids into-”

“You don't care,” Rhodey said, cutting him off. The look he shot Tony was about 120% done. “And you know full well you can have about two dozen people up there, because I've seen you do it. Drop the act.”

Tony deflated. “Fine, but-”

“It's her birthday,” Steve said, a faint smile on his face. “It's her first Red Sox game. Maybe-”

“It's your birthday, too,” Tony pointed out.

“But not my first game.” Steve let his head fall back, squinting up at the sky, at the perfect blue sky, feeling the warmth of the sun on his face. “It's a perfect day for baseball. Rhodey, want to go see a baseball game with me? A real one?”

Rhodey grinned. “Captain, I would be honored.”

Tony rolled his eyes, but there was a smile on his face. “You'll cause a riot in the stands.”

“Maybe, maybe not,” Natasha said. She adjusted her cap. “Boston. If we can get Thor into a less offensive shirt-”

Thor frowned down at his Jets shirt. “What is wrong-”

“Let's go find you a souvenir stand, Thor,” Darcy said, taking him by the arm.

“Just put it on my tab-” Tony started, and Darcy waved him off.

“That was never in question, boss man.”

“Bet we get at least two innings,” Clint said. He grinned. “More if we can get Stark to shut up for five minutes.”

“We can always head back to the box if we end up being a disruption,” Rhodey said, before going back to his sausage. 

Steve looked at Bruce, who shrugged. “It's your birthday, Cap. I'll duck out if I need to.” He looked up. “But it's a nice day. And I hear there's gonna be fireworks tonight.”

“And we're going to have a perfect view,” Tony said.

“Let's go,” Steve said, and he took a bite of his cupcake. “Happy birthday, America.”

Tony grinned. “Happy birthday, Steve.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Clint bought this out of season because he COULD.
> 
> http://shop.mlb.com/product/index.jsp?productId=12672507&pla=pla_12379971&CAWELAID=1369885394&CAGPSPN=pla&KPID=12379971
> 
> It is Wally, the Red Sox Mascot, as a hat. It is not a good look on Clint. I don't care. 8)


	8. August-  The Dog Days of Summer

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, it's not a holiday, but August doesn't really have any holidays of note.
> 
> So have ladies enjoying some beach time!

“I know it's tempting. But I wouldn't, if I were you.”

The guy was big and broad and had the sort of muscles that came from a love affair with the gym and possibly steroids. His hair was carefully styled and his shirt was the most ridiculous mesh mess that Darcy had ever seen, but he had a pleasant sort of smile and hadn't said anything objectionable or obscene since he'd wandered up to the candy shop, so she figured she might as well warn him.

It wouldn't do any good, but she might as well warn him.

He spared her a quick glance, and then a longer, more approving one. Darcy smirked at him from behind her hand carved mango on a stick. Her bathing suit was a vintage inspired two piece, with high waisted, hip hugging shorts and a bikini top that made the most of her impressive cleavage. She reached up and toyed with the fake tie that seemed to hold it together in the front, between her breasts, just because she could. 

“Yeah?” he asked, his eyes following the movement of her painted nails. “And why not? Want me all to yourself?”

Darcy flipped her sunglasses up to her forehead, letting her eyes slide from the top of his gelled hair, all the way down to his flip flop clad feet. He grinned at her, and Darcy grinned back before dropping her sunglasses back onto her nose. “No. Tempting,” she admitted, because he looked like a good time. A short good time, but still a good time. For a girl who didn't have a boyfriend, that was, and she might've had a boyfriend, so...

“But no,” she said, on a sad sounding sigh. “Look, she's out of your league, and maybe out of your weight class, and she's spoken for.” She waved a languid hand across the crowded candy store. “I can see why you might want to give it a try, I do.”

And really, she did. Sif's eyes were almost as wide as her smile and as she considered the rows and rows and rows of brilliantly colored candy apples. Her bright red string bikini strained against the weight of her breasts as she leaned forward, peering at the treats. Her masses of heavy brown hair were pulled back in a ponytail at the crown of her head, held in place with a simple elastic and a huge pair of sunglasses, letting the curls tumble down her bare back. Her extremely tight, extremely short cut off jean shorts hugged her hips and the truly glorious lines of her ass.

People had been walking into things all day. Darcy enjoyed watching the chaos that Sif left in her wake, even if Sif herself was oblivious.

“She's got a boyfriend?” he asked. In that tone of voice that guys used when they were trying to decide if they really cared about that technicality. “Really?”

“Nope,” Darcy said, licking mango juice from her fingertips. She adjusted the stick in her hand before she ended up dripping onto her breasts. “Worse. Girlfriend.”

She pointed. Maria was leaning up against the counter just a few feet away, tall and sleek in a simple bright blue racing style suit and white pedal-pushers. Her dark hair was neatly contained at the nape of her neck, her eyes hidden behind a very expensive pair of sunglasses. Her arms were crossed over her chest, but she was smiling in Sif's direction. 

“She's got a lot of job related stress, and she's armed,” Darcy explained.

The lunkhead considered Maria “Yeah, where's she keeping her gun in that getup?” he asked, with a smarmy grin.

Darcy sighed. “Oh, baby. Poor, dumb baby.” She tipped her head in his direction, considering him over the rims of her sunglasses. “She does not need a gun.”

He stared at her. Then at Maria. Then back at Darcy. Darcy arched her eyebrows and bit delicately into a petal of her mango. “No one will ever find your body,” she said cheerfully.

He made a scoffing sound. “I'll take my chances,” he said, his chin coming up.

“That would indicate that you have a chance,” Darcy said, her grin taking on a distinctly sharp edge. She stared him down. “Trust me. You don't.”

Up at the counter, Sif was having an animated discussion with a small girl who could barely see over the edge of the case. Together, they seemed to come to a consensus, and Maria pushed herself upright to pay. The boy behind the counter handed Sif a massive apple, gleaming with red candy coating and swirled with thin streaks of dark chocolate. 

The little girl was still staring into the case, her fingers pressed up against the glass. Sif gave Maria a hopeful look, even as her teeth sank into her apple. Her lips came away slick with red candy, and Maria handed over another bill.

Moments later, the little girl was running for the door, a candy apple covered in pink sprinkles and chopped peanuts clutched in both hands. Right behind her, Sif had her arm slung around Maria's waist, her hand tucked in Maria's back pocket, her head tipped in Maria's direction as she teased her with the apple. Maria caught her wrist, holding her hand steady as she took a bite of the apple.

Their kiss was sticky with sugar and half hidden behind the globe of the apple.

“You don't have a chance,” Darcy reiterated.

“Yeah, I guess not-”

“Darcy, look! They have SWEDISH FISH!” Jane popped up next to Darcy, her eyes huge, and her arms full of bags of red jelly fish. When both Darcy and the local bro just stared at her, she held them out. “Swedish Fish,” she repeated, her voice full of awe.

“You should get some for big an' blonde,” Darcy said. She arched her eyebrows. “Bet he'd enjoy them.”

“You're making fun of me, but I am going to do just that,” Jane said, so intense that Darcy couldn't hold back a grin. She started making her way through the crowd, her prized candy held above her head. Her black tankini was covered with a field of glittering silver white stars, her short white skirt bouncing with each step.

“Is she-” the guy started.

“Dear God, no,” Darcy said. Grinning, she waved a hand in his direction, even as she started for the door. “Go. Warn your kind not to meddle in our affairs. For their health and safety.” Her head up, a smile on her bright red lips, she swept out onto the boardwalk.

Maria and Sif were waiting for her right outside. “There you are,” Sif said, as a gust of wind caught one of her dark curls. She pushed it away from her cheek, turning her face towards the sun. “I had thought that we had misplaced you somewhere along the way.”

“We're not that lucky,” Maria said, with a straight face.

“Behave, beloved,” Sif told her.

“Make me,” Maria said, her lips twitching. Laughing, Sif slipped a finger under Maria's chin, turning Maria's head up so she could coax a kiss from Maria's lips. When she pulled back, her lips cherry red, Maria licked her lips. “You taste good.”

“Always,” Sif said, fluttering her eyelashes.

“I have candy,” Jane said, bouncing out, a bag clutched to her chest. 

“We're all very excited for you,” Darcy said.

“Be like that, and I won't give you any.”

“I'm getting taffy,” Darcy said, still working on her mango. “Salt water taffy. A barrel full of salt water taffy. We can roll it home.”

“Do you not want anything?” Sif asked Maria.

“I'm holding out for a Nathan's hot dog,” Maria said. At Darcy's disbelieving look, she shrugged. “Look. Crinkle cut fries are a weakness, I don't want to hear it from you, Lewis.”

“Ooooh, corn dogs,” Darcy said, her eyes wide.

“Onion rings,” Jane said, her eyes wide. She ducked a little closer to Darcy as the crowds moved around them. “Ugh, can we go in the water now? I swear I'm going to melt.”

“Pretty sure this beach is made of trash,” Darcy said. Still, she was considering it. The heat was oppressive, and had been for days. 

“Does it look like I care?” Jane said. “I'm hot. I'd like to be less hot. I don't think I'm equipped for a New York August.”

“No one is, that's why Coney Island is still a thing,” Maria said. “Because August in New York.”

“There's a reason why they call these the dog days of summer,” Darcy said. 

“Because only a dog could be happy in this heat?” Maria groused, her hands in her back pockets. Next to her, close enough for their hips to bump with every step, Sif laughed.

“I'm perfectly happy, what does that say about me?” she asked, twirling her candy apple between her fingers. It glittered in the sunlight, a perfect red jewel of a treat.

“That you're a-” Darcy started.

“Watch it,” Maria said, her eyes narrowing in Darcy's direction.

“Oh, come on, that was a straight line that I cannot be expected to ignore, you are asking way, way too much of me right now, bosslady,” Darcy said.

“They're actually called the dog days of summer because during the period from roughly July 11th through August 30th, Sirius, the Dog Star, rises in conjunction with the sun,” Jane said, fanning herself with her paper bag. Her cheeks were pink, despite the huge straw hat that she was wearing. Everyone looked at her, and she blinked at them. “What? You asked.”

“We didn't ask,” Darcy said. “We were discussing.”

“But you were discussing wrong,” Jane said. 

“Nerd,” Darcy said, grinning.

“Useless waste of my grant money,” Jane shot back, her nose in the air.

“Thor says I must ride the roller coaster,” Sif said. She gave Maria a hopeful look. 

“Thor has the worst ideas,” Maria said, but she tangled her fingers with Maria's. “It's better after dark.”

“Thor is a tourist, I swear to God, he is the worst tourist,” Darcy said. “It's great, we can do all the loserly tourist things and blame it on Thor and he's fine with it.”

The wind kicked up, driving salt spray off the water and sending gulls screeching up from the sand. Down on the beach, umbrellas tipped, first one way and then the other. Darcy tipped her sunglasses down her nose and squinted up at the sky. “Looks like rain,” she said, finishing her mango and tossing the stick into the nearest trash can.

Jane clutched her hat to her head, pinning it in place against the wind. “Feels like rain,” she said, hope blooming in her face.

“C'mon,” Maria said. “This way.” Holding tight to Sif's hand, she headed up the boardwalk. The crowds were shifting now, people sprinting for cover, for the subway station, kids running for the storefronts and vendors covering their wares. Darcy watched, amazed, as the human tide rolled up the beach, trailing towels and blankets behind them. Some hearty folks just pulled their umbrellas down and huddled close, looking up at the darkening skies with grins.

Maria lead them through the mounting crowds, heading for Steeplechase Pier. They were half running as they headed towards the far end, Darcy laughing and Jane clutching her hat with one hand and her candy with the other. They broke free of the crowds just as the sky opened.

Darcy, shrieking, shot forward, hopping up onto the railing. She spread her arms wide, tilting her face back as the rain poured down, soaking her in an instant. Laughing, Sif kicked water at Maria, who splashed her back. Jane, shoving her candy under her hat, flopped onto one of the lying benches that were scattered along the pier. Flat on her back, she grinned up at the sky.

Bracing her hands on the railing, Darcy stared out over the crashing waves. Life guard whistles echoed through the air, over the sound of shouts and music from the boardwalk. Sif joined her, taking a seat on the lower rail, her arms folded on the upper rail. “I like your Coney Island,” she said, grinning up at Darcy.

“I'm glad,” Darcy said, pushing wet hair out of her face. “I want ice cream.”

“I'm not eating ice cream in the rain,” Jane said.

“I will,” Sif said. Maria shrugged. 

“I'm buying,” Darcy said.

“Fine. Fudge ripple.”

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[PODFIC] The Avengers' First Thanksgiving](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1057259) by [kerravon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kerravon/pseuds/kerravon)




End file.
